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THE  DIMOCK  BOOKS 

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THE    BOOK   OF 
THE   TARPON 


BY 

A.  W    DIMOCK 


ILLUSTRATED   WITH  PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY  JULIAN  DIMOCK 


NEW  YORK 

OUTING   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

MCMXV 


Copyright,  iqii,  by 
OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 
All  rights  reserved 


19/1 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB 


PAGE 


I.    The  First  Tarpon 13 

II.    Hunting  with  a  Harpoon 27 

III.  Riding  the  Breakers 45 

IV.  Sharks  as  Fishermen 59 

V.    The  Girl's  Day      . 73 

VI.    The  Camera-Man's  Day 91 

VII.    Day  of  the  Camp-Fire  Man 105 

VIII.    Fishing  in  a  Flower  Bed 115 

IX.    Checkmating  a  Tarpon 125 

X.    The  Tarpon  Swamps  Us 141 

XI.    The  Captain  Wins  a  Wager 157 

XII.    Quiet  Cruising 165 

XIII.  The  Border  of  the  Glades 173 

XIV.  A  Zigzag  Trip  and  a  Zoo 187 

XV.    The  Happiest  Day  of  All 201 

XVI.    Tarpon  Tragedies 207 

XVII.    The  Tarpon  and  the  Tempest 217 

XVIII.    Where  and  How 231 

XIX.  The  Finest  Sport  in  the  World        ....  245 


^841849 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAOING  PAOB 

The  next  tarpon  spent  most  of  its  time  in  the  air  doing  acrobatic 
stunts         .       .       ...      .      .     ^      .      .         Frontispiece 

Wonderful  creatures  that  seized  their  bait  and  hurled  it  a  hundred 
feet  into  the  air 16 

Garmented  in  glistening  silver  and  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  sparkling 
diamonds 17 

Then  in  furious  mood  threw  his  supple  body,  contorted  with  passion, 
above  the  water 32 

Six  feet  of  the  most  beautiful  creature  that  lives,  clad  in  glistening, 
silver  mail 33 

"Boca  Grande's  no  place  for  a  canoe! "  objected  the  captain  anxiously  36 
You  have  pulled  your  fragile  canoe  beside  a  creature  that  can  knock 

it  endwise  with  a  flip  of  its  tail 37 

You  soon  learn  to  pay  out  the  line  without  letting  it  slip  .  .  .  87 
A  six-foot  tarpon  was  ahead  of  me  and  his  cavernous  mouth  engulfed 

my  mackerel •  .    44 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  a  mix-up  and  we  were  bui-y  swinmiing 

ashore  wiOi  the  canoe,  paddles  and  other  things  ,  ,  .45 
There  is  a  crash  in  the  water  as  the  tarpon  leaps  before  dashing 

away    ...       .        .        .       .    •    .       .      .      .      •      ,    45 

** There's  a  shark  at  the  end  of  this  line!" 48 

Drag  him  over  the  side  of  the  canoe  and  you  will  get  all  the  fun 

you  want .49 

He  was  outward  bound  and  rejoiced  in  the  trouble  preparing  for  us  .  49 
Sending  hook  and  bait  flying  twenty  feet  into  the  air  .  .  .52 
Hunting  tarpon  with  a  harpoon  is  several  games  rolled  into  one  .  53 
The  really  vulnerable  part  for  your  harpoon  isn't  much  bigger  than 

the  back  of  an  unabridged  dictionary 53 

Doing  acrobatic  stunts  that  made  one  dizzy  to  look  at  .  .  .60 
He  started  away  with  renewed  vigor  while  I  was  nearly  exhausted  .    61 

7 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  last  of  the  school  of  minnows  we  were  chasing  had  been  eaten      .    64 
The  tarpon  was  fifty  feet  from  the  canoe  when  he  jumped     ,        .    65 
"I  want  to  sit  all  the  afternoon  on  a.  soft  cushion  in  a  dry  canoe 
without  any  fishing  tackle'*. .68 

It  takes  skill  to  handle  canoe  and  tarpon  at  the  same  time  .  .  69 
For  an  instant  the  great  bulk  hung  directly  over  me  .  ;.  .  69 
Within  an  hour,  the  tarpon  leaped  out  of  the  water  a  score  of  times  76 
We  spent  the  hour  on  a  little  key  which  covered  but  the  fraction 

of  an  acre 77 

We  returned  to  our  fishing  ground  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  tarpon  bad 

my  bait .80 

As  he  hauled  in  his  bait,  it  was  followed  and  seized  by  a  tarpon    .    81 

The  captain  got  the  first  strike 84 

**Wow!"  said  the  camera  man  as  his  shutter  clicked  while  the  fish 

was  high  in  the  air  almost  over  the  canoe  .  »  .  •  .85 
The  next  leap  of  the  maddened  creature  landed  it  in  the  captain's 

arms 92; 

As  we  neared  the  Big  Pass  black  clouds  were  piling  up  in  the  Eastern 

sky ^93 

The  fish  crossed  and  re-crossed  until  the  lines  were  hopelessly 

twisted 96 

"Ouch!"  exclaimed  the  captain,  as  a  rush  of  the  tarpon  tore  the 

line  through  his  bare  hands 97 

•*Didyoueverseesucha  jump  as  that  first  one?'*  .  •  .  .100 
Like  an  arrow  from  the  bow  something  shot  up  from  the  depths  .  101 
A  twitch  of  the  line  should  send  the  tarpon  in  the  air  .  .  .  101 
The  next  instant  he  was  standing  up  in  the  canoe  that  he  might  take 

the  line  in  faster 108 

We  have  photographed  the  Charlotte  Harbor  tarpon  within  an 

inch  of  his  hfe *        .        .        .       .  109 

We  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  our  fairy- 
like  surroundings 116 

Over  the  bow  of  the  canoe  within  reach  Of  my  hand  .  .  .117 
The  scene  that  followed  was  worth  the  high  price  of  a  tarpon  line  .117 
The  tarpon  was  slid  into  the  boat  as  suggested  ....  124 
We  take  possession  of  the  island  and,  wandering  forth  with  big  ' 

baskets,  return  laden •  125 

8 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  rest  of  that  afternoon  the  captain  played  the  fish  a  bit  less  sav- 
agely   128 

Seldom  an  interval  of  ten  minutes  between  the  landing  of  one  tarpon 

and  the  strike  of  his  successor 129 

The  sport  of  fishing  is  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  size  of  the  tackle      .        .  129 

The  captain  pulled  fiercely  and  the  creature  seemed  to  leap  at  me 

with  wide  open  jaws 132 

A  hundred  times  the  end  of  our  hopes  seemed  near  .  .  ,  .  133 
Minnows  had  been  driven  to  the  surface  by  bigger  fish  .  .  .  133 
I  began  business  on  Turner's  River  with  an  eight-ounce  fly  rod  .  140 
In  the  bay  a  new  terror  possessed  him  and  he  dashed  about  as  if 

crazy 141 

Twenty  tarpon  a  day  was  our  score       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  144 

These  fish  are  too  little  for  the  big  rod  and  too  big  for  the  little  rod  .  145 
I  prescribed  the  Bee  Man  of  Lacosta  for  us  both       ....  148 

Rodgers  River  was  now  full  of  them 149 

On  putting  out  my  line  the  bait  was  seized  by  a  tarpon  .  .  .  156 
The  wild  leaps  of  the  creature  were  startling  but  welcome  .  .  157 
Paddled  our  light  canoe  as  if  in  a  dream  over  sunny  waters  .  .  160 
At  last  I  had  a  strike — and  a  tarpon  sped  down  the  stream  .  .  161 
The  craft  gave  a  twist  and  a  roll  and  plunged  me  beneath  the 

surface 161 

I  hauled  on  the  line  till  the  fish  was  twice  his  length  from  me  and 

was  trying  to  hold  him  there 164 

More  than  once  it  sprang  at  us  with  wide  open  jaws  .  .  .  165 
Wore  itself  out  in  half  an  hour  by  a  series  of  frantic  leaps  .  .  .  165 
He  saw  his  fate  in  the  thing  that  he  couldn't  shake  oflf  .  .  .  172 
While  the  captain  fished,  my  work  consisted  in  keeping  the  canoe 

head  on  to  the  fish .         .         .  173 

At  times  the  fish  refused  to  jump  when  called  on  .  .  .  .  173 
Brought  the  strain  of  his  weight  on  the  tip  of  the  rod  which  broke  in 

two  parts 176 

We  hit  the  top  of  the  tarpon  season  at  Rodgers  River  .  .  .  177 
There  were  few  minutes  of  that  day  when  my  little  rod  was  not 

in   action 180 

Made  my  reel  buzz  as  it  darted  hither  and  yon        .        .        .        .181 

9 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

As  I  believe,  the  largest  tarpon  that  was  ever  caught  on  an  eight- 
ounce  fly  rod  shot  a  dozen  feet  in  the  air 188 

Rolled  me  well  out  and  buried  me  beneath  the  surface  of  the  water  .  189 
The  true  weapon  for  the  shoal  water  b  the  harpoon  for  which  there 

was  food  on  every  side  of  us 192 

It  looked  and  pulled  like  the  biggest  kind  of  a  fish  .         .         .193 

Always  we  feared  the  tarpon's  getting  too  far  away  .         .193 

Jumped  wildly,  and  dashed  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  on  again  .  208 

The  captain  got  his  first  strike 209 

Tlie  gorgeous  creature  appeared  within  a  halo  of  rainbow-making 

drops 212 

One  tarpon  came  to  meet  us  just  off  the  hotel 213 

In  payment  for  his  dinner  he  posed  on  my  outstretched  fingers  .  .  213 
If  there  is  better  tarpon  fishing  in  the  worid  than  can  be  had  at  Boca 

Grande,  I  have  never  heiu>d  of  it 220 

Once  more  it  leaped  but  quietly 221 

The  head  of  Hamey  River  is  a  nursexj'  for  tarpon   ....  224 

Darting  away  kept  me  busy  with  the  paddle 225 

DcHi't  try  to  capture  the  biggest  fish  with  the  smallest  rod  except- 
ing perhaps  just  once 225 

He  fits  the  light  fly  rod  as  no  trout  ever  dreamed  of  doing  .  240 

Shaking  his  great  open  mouth  so  near  my  face  that  I  put  up  my  hand 

to  brush  him  away 241 

No  available  sport  offers  greater  legitimate  excitement  than  tarpon 

fishing 244 

The  captain  lifted  him  clear  (^  the  water 245 

Rou^  water  and  a  bucking  tarpon  make  hard  riding  .  .  .  245 
Dove  beneath  the  canoe  and  swam  swiftly  away  on  the  other  side  .  252 
Two  of  you  in  a  canoe  make  an  ideal  outfit     ...        .        .        .  25S 


10 


THE    FIRST   TARPON 


The  Book  of  the  Tarpon 

CHAPTER   I 
THE  FIRST  TARPON 

A  GORGEOUS  vision  burst  from  the 
water  behind  us  and  shot  ten  feet  into 
the  air.  "What  on  earth  is  that.  Tat?" 
I  was  trolling  for  channel-bass,  but  was  catch- 
ing cavally  and  ravailla,  or  jack-fish  and  snook, 
as  Tat  persisted  in  calling  them.  I  knew  the 
whole  breed  of  jumping  fish,  with  their  shck, 
greasy  leaps  and  an  occasional  wiggle  while  in 
the  air,  but  the  best  of  them  was  as  Satyr  to 
Hyperion  compared  with  the  iridescent  creature 
at  the  end  of  my  line.  That  twisting,  gyrating 
body,  garmented  in  glistening  silver  and  en- 
veloped in  a  cloud  of  sparkling  diamonds,  was 

13 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

unlike  any  denizen  of  earth.  The  briUiant  rays 
of  the  semi-tropical  sun  made  a  prism  of  every 
drop  in  the  shower  that  surrounded  the  creature. 
At  first  I  thought  the  wonderful  being  was  a 
mermaid,  and  as  I  noted  her  fierce  display  of  ac- 
tivity and  strength,  I  pitied  the  merman  who 
came  home  late,  without  a  better  excuse  than  a 
meeting  of  the  lodge.  Then  I  suspected  it  was 
a  wicked  genie,  freed  from  the  seal  of  King 
Solomon  which  had  imprisoned  it  for  thousands 
of  years. 

I  was  brought  back  to  earth  by  Tat's  reply: 
"Mus'  be  a  tarpuml" 

"What's  that?"  I  asked. 

"That's  what's  got  your  hook!" 

Talking  in  a  circle  is  profitless  and  I  turned 
to  my  buzzing  reel,  shouting  as  I  saw  the  di- 
minishing line:  "Pull  like  smoke,  Tat!  Line's 
'most  gone." 

Then  I  put  on  the  drag,  but  it  had  no  effect. 
I  held  my  rod  vertically,  and  pressed  my  thumb 
hard  on  the  reel. 

Once  more  the  creature  shot  high  in  air,  while 
my  thumb  got  red  hot. 

This  was  in  February,  1882,  three  years  be- 

14 


THE  FIRST  TARPON 

fore  the  recognition  of  the  tarpon  as  a  game 
fish.  I  believe  the  tarpon  then  on  my  line  was 
entitled  to  the  credit  of  being  the  first  of  his 
species  captured  with  rod  and  reel.  That  he 
failed  to  receive  recognition  and  that  I  missed 
the  glory  of  his  capture  is  due  to  my  unskilful 
handling  of  the  gaff  after  the  contest  was  over. 
The  combat  began  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ho- 
mosassa  River,  in  Florida,  where  its  current 
sweeps  past  Shell  Island  into  the  Gulf  of  Mex- 
ico. 

Two  hundred  yards  is  little  enough  for  a  tar- 
pon line,  and  I  had  less  than  as  many  feet,  but 
I  played  the  fish  as  hard  as  the  line  would  bear, 
and  Tat  pulled  like  a  little  fiend,  whenever  I 
yelled  that  the  line  was  almost  gone.  Again 
and  again  the  tarpon  sprang  far  above  the  sur- 
face, sending  my  heart  into  my  mouth  as  some 
of  the  leaps  lightened  the  strain  on  the  rod  un- 
til I  feared  the  creature  was  free.  Back  and 
forth  he  led  us,  out  on  the  shallow  waters  of  the 
sandy  flats  outside  the  pass  and  then  around  the 
turns  in  the  deep  channel  of  the  river  between 
its  mouth  and  turbulent  Hell  Gate.  The  con- 
test ended  where  it  had  begun — beside  Shell 

15 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Island.  The  tired  tarpon  had  ceased  to  leap 
and  the  slow,  rhythmic  motion  of  his  tail  barely- 
kept  him  afloat,  while  with  an  audibly  beating 
heart  I  gently  pulled  the  skiff  beside  him. 

I  handed  my  rod  to  Tat  and,  taking  the  gaff 
from  him,  struck  the  tarpon  in  the  throat  with  it. 
The  fish  gave  a  lurch,  and  as  I  threw  my  weight 
back  on  the  gaff,  it  straightened  out  and  I  went 
over  backward  into  the  Homosassa  River.  I 
scrambled  into  the  skiff  only  to  find  a  rod 
broken,  a  line  parted,  and  the  record  of  the  first 
tarpon  taken  on  rod  and  reel  lost  forever.  I 
scolded  Tat,  blamed  myself,  and  anathematized 
the  gaff.  But  a  gaff  which  is  good  for  a  fifty- 
pound  salmon  is  only  a  toy  to  a  tarpon  of  fair 
size. 

For  many  days,  from  dawn  to  dark,  I  trolled 
from  the  Homosassa  Spring,  where  the  beauti- 
ful river  rises,  to  Shell  Island  at  its  mouth,  but 
all  in  vain,  for  not  another  tarpon  rose  to  my 
lure. 

In  the  years  that  followed,  strange  stories 
were  told  by  fishermen  of  wonderful  creatures 
that  seized  their  bait  and,  leaping  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  hurled  it  a  hundred  feet  into 

16 


WONDERFUL     CREATURES     THAT     SEIZED     THEIR 

BAIT  AND  HURLED  IT  A  HUNDRED 

FEET  INTO  THE  AIR. 


THE  FIRST  TARPON 

the  air.  Fishing  with  a  rod  in  Florida  was  a 
sport  of  the  winter  months,  and  it  is  not  until 
March  that  tarpon  begin  to  frequent  the  waters 
of  the  coast.  To  the  tourist  the  strike  of  a  tar- 
pon was  a  rare  event,  and  fishing  for  the 
creatures  became  exciting  and  popular  long 
before  one  had  been  landed  on  rod  and 
reel.  It  was  a  new  game,  and  the  methods 
and  machinery  of  ordinary  fishing  were  in- 
adequate for  this  bucking  bronco  of  the  sea. 

The  tarpon  was  accustomed  to  taking  his  food 
on  the  fly,  and  was  suspicious  of  dead  bait.  Even 
after  he  had  taken  it  into  his  mouth,  the  touch 
of  a  hook,  or  the  motion  of  a  line  threw  him  into 
a  paroxysm  of  fear  and  the  bait  was  cast  vio- 
lently from  him.  There  was  slight  hold  for  a 
hook  in  his  bony  mouth,  and  his  hard  jaws  soon 
frayed  the  fisherman's  line,  while  too  often  a 
chain  or  wire  frightened  the  fish  before  he  had 
swallowed  the  bait.  No  reel  had  been  made 
which  could  hold  the  line  required  to  follow  a 
fish  whose  first  dash  carried  him  a  rifle  shot 
away.  The  rod  had  not  been  built  that  was 
capable  of  putting  the  strain  on  the  line  re- 
quired to  tire  a  fish  that  weighed  as  much  as  the 

17 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

fisherman,  and  was  strong  enough  to  tow  him 
in  his  skiff  for  miles. 

Slowly  tackle  was  fitted  to  the  fish.  Special 
lines  were  constructed,  two  hundred  yards  in 
length,  which  would  support  a  weight  of  thirty 
pounds,  and  big  reels  built  that  would  hold  the 
lines  and  stand  the  strain  of  their  use.  Many 
fishermen  wound  two  hundred  yards  of  fine  line 
on  ;yieir  reels  before  putting  on  the  heavier  one 
with  which  the  fish  was  to  be  fought.  If,  then, 
the  tarpon  got  away  with  the  fighting  line  he 
could  be  followed  through  the  lighter  one  for 
another  two  hundred  yards.  Snells  were  con- 
structed of  braided  flax,  soft  and  strong,  of  so 
many  threads  that  before  they  could  all  be 
ground  apart  between  the  jaws  of  the  quarry, 
either  fish  or  fisherman  would  be  dead.  The 
early  rods  were  simply  eight-foot  lengths  of 
tough  bamboo,  and  for  real  business  they  are 
about  as  serviceable  as  the  thirty-dollar  rod  of 
to-day. 

The  first  bait  used  was  the  half  of  a  mullet, 
through  the  skin  of  which  the  tarpon  hook  was 
ingeniously  sewed  in  a  way  that  completely  con- 
cealed it.    The  earliest  fishing  grounds  were  the 

18 


THE  FIRST  TARPON 

streams  and  bays  of  the  west  coast  of  Florida 
from  Charlotte  Harbor  south.  The  fisherman's 
skiff  was  anchored  fifty  or  more  feet  from  some 
deep  hole  in  river  or  bay  into  which  his  bait  was 
cast.  A  dozen  yards  of  the  line  was  reeled  off 
and  coiled  loosely  on  the  thwart  beside  the  fish- 
erman, while  the  rod  was  laid  across  the  skiff. 
The  experienced  fisherman  then  examined  his 
basket  to  see  that  pipe  and  tobacco  were  con- 
veniently placed,  that  his  favorite  book  was  at 
hand  and  the  other  volume  that  closed  with  a 
cork  was  not  too  far  away. 

It  was  the  vacation  time  of  the  fisherman,  and 
would  last  till  the  coming  of  the  tarpon,  which 
might  be  in  an  hour,  a  day,  a  week,  or  never.  I 
have  known  fishermen  to  come  four  thousand 
miles  for  successive  seasons  to  catch  a  tarpon, 
without  getting  a  single  strike.  While  the  fish- 
erman read  or  dozed,  his  boatman  from  time  to 
time  threw  fragments  of  mullet  into  the  water 
near  the  hole  where  the  bait  was  lying.  When 
it  happened  that  the  line  began  to  move  and  the 
coil  on  the  thwart  to  diminish  there  was  excite- 
ment in  the  skiff.  The  boatman  quietly  took  in 
the  anchor  and  with  oars  in  hand  was  ready  to 

19 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

give  way  in  an  instant.  The  fisherman  gently- 
lifted  his  rod  and,  as  he  watched  the  outgoing 
line,  poured  a  dipper  of  water  over  the  reel  to 
reduce  the  heat  from  the  friction  which  would 
follow  the  waking  of  the  tarpon. 

There  was  a  lesson  in  every  motion  of  the 
line  for  the  man  who  could  read  it.  A  jerky  ac- 
tion, with  a  run  of  a  few  inches  at  a  time,  prob- 
ably meant  that  catfish  were  stealing  the  bait ;  a 
slow,  steady  outgoing  of  the  line  was  likely  to 
be  caused  by  a  sting-ray;  a  more  rapid  rush  in- 
dicated that  a  shark  had  found  the  bait  and, 
after  the  manner  of  his  species,  was  seeking  se- 
clusion before  swallowing  it,  while  a  short,  slow 
run,  followed  in  a  minute  or  two  by  another  and 
another  gave  hope  of  a  Silver  King  to  the  fish- 
erman. Yet  whatever  the  symptoms,  as  the 
diagnosis  could  not  be  certain,  the  treatment  was 
the  same.  When  about  forty  feet  of  line  had 
run  out,  the  fisherman,  holding  rod  and  reel 
firmly,  struck  with  force  enough  to  bury  the 
barbed  hook  deep  in  the  body  of  the  fish.  Often 
there  followed  a  hard  pull,  steadily  continued, 
which  no  drag  on  the  line  could  modify.  A  few 
minutes  of  this,  a  boat  dragged  back  and  forth 

20 


THE  FIRST  TARPON 

by  a  deep-swimming  denizen  of  the  dark  waters, 
and  the  freed  line  would  come  back  with  the 
flaxen  snood  cleanly  cut  by  the  serrated  teeth  of 
the  big  shark. 

Sometimes  when  the  fisherman  struck  there 
shot  into  the  air,  a  hundred  feet  from  the  skiff/ 
six  feet  of  the  most  beautiful  creature  that  lived, 
clad  in  glistening  silver  mail.  The  swift  twists 
of  the  body  of  the  creature  could  scarcely  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  eye,  while  the  convulsive  play  of 
the  gills  was  no  more  visible  than  are  the  vibra- 
tions of  the  wings  of  the  humming-bird  as  it 
poises  over  the  flower  from  which  it  feeds.  Dur- 
ing the  first  long  dash  of  the  tarpon  the  buzzing 
reel  blistered  the  fisherman's  thumbs  within 
their  protecting  stalls,  while  the  boatman  la- 
bored with  the  oars  and  the  line  ran  alarmingly 
low.  When  the  fish  slackened  its  pace  and  the 
oarsman  gained,  there  was  joy  in  the  fisherman's 
heart.  He  forgot  his  burned  thumbs  as  he 
reeled  in  the  line,  and  as  the  slack  gathered 
faster  than  he  could  take  it,  he  shouted  to  the 
rower  to  stop  and  to  back  water  quickly.  Then, 
as  a  fresh  spurt  of  the  fish  snatched  the  reel 
handle    from    his    hand,    sharply    rapping   his 

21 


# 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

knuckles  while  the  freed  reel  overran  the  line,  he 
yelled  to  his  boatman  to  pull  for  his  life.  With 
trembling  fingers  he  picked  at  the  turns  in  the 
line  which  clogged  his  reel,  knowing  that  the 
hopes  of  the  day,  and  perhaps  of  the  season, 
rested  in  the  next  few  seconds. 

If  the  tarpon  was  quiet  for  a  minute  or  two, 
or  the  oarsman  rowed  as  fast  as  the  fish  swam, 
the  sportsman  had  another  chance  in  the  game 
he  had  fairly  lost.  Perhaps  in  an  hour,  or  two, 
or  three,  an  exhausted  fisherman  looked  on  a 
tired  tarpon,  slowly  sculling  beside  his  skiff  and 
inviting  the  stroke  of  the  great  gaff. 

Wood's  Hole  in  Surveyor's  Creek  was  the 
Mecca  of  tarpon  fishermen  in  the  early  days  of 
the  sport.  It  was  best  reached  by  way  of  Es- 
tero  Bay,  through  Corkscrew  Creek,  and  was 
evidenced  by  letters  of  gold  on  a  costly  base.  It 
was  recognized  by  tarpon  as  a  refuge  and  three 
out  of  four  of  tarpon  that  I  struck  far  down  the 
stream  selected  Wood's  Hole  for  their  surren- 
der. 

For  a  few  years  interest  in  the  new  sport  in- 
creased slowly.  The  habits  and  habitats  of  the 
tarpon  were  not  understood,  and  most  of  the 


THE  FIRST  TARPON 

fishing  was  done  before  the  fish  were  due  on  the 
coast.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  tourist-fisherman  av- 
eraged a  tarpon  a  month,  and  thirty,  or  even 
twenty-six,  days  in  an  anchored  skiff  was  a  big 
price  to  pay  for  the  chance  of  a  joy  ride  of  an 
hour. 

Once  on  the  Miramichi,  after  a  day  of  sahnon 
fishing,  I  tried  to  talk  of  the  wonderful  new  sport, 
but  as  I  compared  my  day  in  the  long  canoe, 
among  the  quick  waters  of  the  beautiful  river, 
with  long  hours  of  waiting  on  motionless  waters, 
I  was  abashed.  When  I  was  fishing  for  bluefish 
off  Montauk,  in  the  yacht  of  a  friend,  I  spoke 
of  the  new  sport. 

"Is  it  better  than  this?"  he  asked,  as  he  hauled 
in  a  big  bluefish,  while  a  bit  of  a  squall  tore  his 
cap  from  his  head  and  the  lee  rail  dipped  be- 
neath the  foaming  water.  And  again  I  was 
silent. 

The  king  of  fish  had  been  discovered,  but  the 
method  of  his  capture  was  clumsy.  The  fish 
was  all  right,  but  the  hunter  all  wrong.  A  new 
weapon  or  a  new  method  was  wanted  and  chance 
led  me  to  both. 


^a 


HUNTING  WITH  A   HARPOON 


CHAPTER   II 
HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

THE  little  skiff  lay  motionless  on  the 
smooth  surface  of  the  river  as  I  stood 
balanced  on  its  bow,  holding  ready  in 
my  hand  the  light  shaft  of  a  tiny  harpoon.  I 
was  peering  beneath  the  bank,  under  overhang- 
ing mangroves,  for  the  tarpon  that  I  knew  was 
there.  I  looked  long  and  far,  but  vainly.  With 
a  half  turn  of  my  head  I  glanced  back  at  the 
rigid  form  of  my  boatman,  standing  in  the  stern 
of  the  craft,  motionless  as  a  bronze  statue  save 
that  a  slight  motion  of  his  sculling  hand  held 
the  skiff  stationary  in  respect  to  the  shore,  while 
his  eyes  looked  deep  into  the  water  beside  me. 
It  was  flood  tide  on  a  calm  day  and  the  limpid 
water  of  greenish  tinge,  fresh  from  the  Gulf, 
showed  every  rootlet  and  tiny  shell  on  bank  and 
bottom.     I  couldn't  have  missed  the  smallest 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

fish,  yet  I  studied  the  depths  again,  from  fifty 
feet  ahead  of  me  down  to  my  very  feet. 

I  was  about  to  speak  impatiently  to  my  cap- 
tain when  there  burst  upon  my  sight,  directly 
beneath  the  bow  of  the  skiff  and  within  two  feet 
of  its  bottom,  the  huge  form  of  a  six-foot  tar- 
pon. I  scarcely  breathed  as  I  slowly,  so  slowly, 
turned  the  point  of  my  harpoon  downward.  The 
creature  seemed  to  be  floating  in  the  air  beneath 
me,  with  its  every  line  distinct  and  almost  within 
reach  of  my  hand.  I  could  make  out  the  pro- 
truding jaw,  the  flexible  armor  plate  that 
guarded  the  mouth,  the  round  eye,  and  the  silver 
cheek.  Beneath  my  hand  was  the  big  bayonet 
fin,  the  like  of  which  I  had  often  followed  for 
miles  as  it  cleaved  the  surface  of  the  shallow 
waters  of  the  west  coast.  I  could  trace  each 
four-inch  plate  that  bulwarked  the  side  of  the 
tarpon  and  could  have  struck  with  my  iron  any 
one  of  the  purple  scales  which  followed  its  spine. 
Yet  near  as  I  was  to  the  quarry  I  was  helpless, 
for  with  the  light  pole  in  my  hand  I  could  not 
drive  the  barb  of  the  little  harpoon  through  the 
double  armor  of  the  great  fish  into  the  flesh 
beyond. 

28 


HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

I  stood  motionless  for  minutes,  expecting 
every  instant  the  wild  dash  of  a  frightened  fish 
and  hoping  for  a  flying  shot  when  it  came.  As 
I  waited,  the  bank  beside  me  as  well  as  the  tar- 
pon seemed  to  glide  slowly  forward  until  the 
bayonet  fin  was  eight  feet  from  my  hand 
and  the  harpoon  which  I  threw  with  all  my 
strength  struck  beside  it  and,  slipping  between 
the  scales,  was  firmly  lodged  in  the  flesh  of  the 
fish. 

After  a  single  leap  the  tarpon  started  up  the 
river  like  an  express  train,  and  had  made  a  hun- 
dred yards  before  I  had  the  line  in  my  hands 
with  the  skiff  under  full  headway.  Then  came 
a  joyous,  one-sided  game.  When  the  fish  slack- 
ened its  gait  I  took  in  line  and  brought  the  skiff 
nearer.  From  time  to  time  the  tarpon  leaped 
high  into  the  air  and  started  off  on  a  new  tack. 
He  carried  us  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  the 
beautiful  Rodger's  River;  in  the  shade  of  broad 
tamarind  trees  and  beside  towering  Royal 
palms;  along  vine-covered  oak-bearing  banks 
and  past  a  rotting  plantation  house,  near  the 
solitary  grave  of  its  former  owner.  The  river 
was  wide,  free  from  snags,  and  the  fish  had  no 

29 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

chance  of  escape.  I  had  only  to  handle  the  line 
carefully,  paying  it  out  to  meet  the  quick  rushes 
of  the  quarry  and  keeping  a  steady  strain  upon 
it  at  other  times,  and  within  an  hour  the  tarpon 
would  surely  be  in  the  skiff.  Then  came  the 
"cut-off,"  which  I  had  forgotten,  but  which  the 
tarpon  remembered  and  entered. 

This  was  a  deep,  crooked  creek,  scarcely  ten 
feet  wide,  which  led  to  Broad  River,  only  half 
a  mile  distant.  Yet  the  creek  twisted  and 
turned,  flowing  a  mile  and  a  half  to  cover  a  scant 
half  mile.  Snags  rose  from  the  bottom  and 
roots  thrust  out  from  the  banks.  Trees  on  op- 
posite banks  united  their  branches  above, 
shrouding  the  stream  with  a  cavelike  gloom. 
Fat  spiders  had  bridged  it  and  sat  in  their  fes- 
tooned dens  at  just  the  height  of  my  face.  I 
was  slapped  in  the  eye  by  one  and  my  face  cov- 
ered with  its  web  as  I  entered  the  creek,  holding 
to  the  line  that  led  to  the  tarpon.  I  held  the  line 
taut  and  kept  as  near  as  possible  to  the  fish, 
while  the  boatman  jammed  his  oar  into  bank, 
trees,  and  snags  in  his  attempts  to  follow  the 
twists  in  the  creek.  Sometimes  the  skiff 
stranded  on  a  half-submerged  log,  or  caught  in 

30 


HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

a  low-hanging  branch.  Then  I  paid  out  Hne  and 
called  to  the  boatman  to  hurry,  while  he  worked 
like  mad  to  free  the  craft. 

Often  the  fish  was  two  turns  in  the  creek 
ahead  of  us,  with  the  line  running  against  snags 
and  through  the  branches  of  trees.  Each  in- 
stant there  was  danger  of  fouling  the  line,  and 
once,  when  the  fish  was  swimming  through  a 
tangle  of  brush,  a  nickel  would  have  bought  that 
tarpon.  But  the  creature  was  considerate,  and 
waited  under  an  overhanging  bank  until  we  had 
cleared  up  the  tangle.  This  was  our  last  trouble 
for  the  creek  soon  widened,  straightened,  and 
opened  into  Broad  River  just  below  the  bay  of 
that  name.  The  tarpon  was  as  tired  as  we,  and 
after  a  short  run  in  the  bay  and  two  or  three 
'jimips  that  hardly  lifted  it  above  the  surface, 
rolled  over  on  its  side  and  was  taken  into  the 
skiff. 

If  you  talk  to  a  fisherman  of  high  degree,  of 
hunting  tarpon  with  a  harpoon,  he  will  scoff  at 
you  and  accuse  you  of  being  unsportsmanlike, 
both  you  and  your  methods.  He  may  compare 
you  with  the  poacher  who  spears  his  salmon  by 
the  light  of  a  jack,  or  with  the  market  hunter 

31 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

who  cares  nothing  how  he  gets  his  game,  so  that 
he  gets  it.  He  will  explain  to  you  that  the  deli- 
cacy and  skill  displayed  in  the  capture  of  his 
game  and  the  odds  against  which  he  contends 
constitute  the  test  of  true  sportsmanship.  His 
test  is  all  right,  but  he  doesn't  apply  it.  To  him 
tarpon  fishing  is  a  specialized  sport,  and  he  has 
paid  his  outfitter  roundly  for  the  conventional 
tools.  To  think  now  for  himself  would  be 
futile  as  exploring  the  fourth  dimension,  or  but- 
ting against  syndicated  government  and  stand- 
ardized graft. 

There  is  much  sport  m  conventional  tarpon 
fishing,  but  it  is  the  joy  of  the  outdoors,  the 
pleasure  of  scenery  and  surroundings,  and  the 
picturesque  fight  against  fate  which  the  tarpon 
puts  up.  The  sportsman,  in  his  cushioned  re- 
volving chair,  does  nothing  that  a  properly  con- 
structed wooden  man  couldn't  do  as  well,  and 
any  good  mechanic  could  devise  a  combination 
of  cogs  and  springs  that  would  beat  him  out  of 
sight. 

But  the  machine  that  hunts  with  a  harpoon 
must  be  a  machine  that  thinks.  The  hunter  who 
successfully  stalks  a  deer  through  the  forest,  or 

32 


i 


HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

drops  him  in  the  open  with  his  rifle  at  two  hun- 
dred yards,  seldom  sits  by  a  runway,  while 
hounds  run  the  quarry  to  him.  The  sportsman 
who  can  cut  down  the  flushed  partridge  with  his 
first  barrel  scorns  to  snare  the  creature.  The 
difference  of  skill  required  between  stalking  and 
hounding  a  deer  is  great ;  between  snap-shooting 
and  snaring  a  partridge  it  is  greater;  but  be- 
tween successfully  hunting  a  tarpon  with  a  har- 
poon and  catching  it  with  rod  and  reel  it  is 
greatest. 

The  harpoon  which  I  prefer  is  only  five  inches 
long,  including  the  socket  in  which  the  pole  is 
thrust.  It  is  a  plain,  pointed  shaft,  of  quarter- 
inch  steel,  with  a  single  barb,  an  inch  from  the 
point.  The  harpoon  pole  is  twelve  feet  long  and 
one  inch  in  diameter.  A  soft  cotton  line  a  hun- 
dred yards  long  and  an  eighth  of  an  inch  in 
diameter  completes  the  outfit.  One  end  of  the 
line  is  fastened  to  a  small,  shallow  tub  in  which 
it  is  loosely  dropped,  not  coiled,  while  the  other 
end  is  made  fast  to  the  harpoon.  In  tarpon 
hunting  the  tub  is  placed  in  the  bow  of  the  skiff, 
or  canoe,  in  which  the  sportsman  stands.  Every 
inch  gained  in  height  is  a  distinct  advantage,  and 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

it  is  best  for  the  hunter  to  place  his  left  foot  on 
the  extreme  bow  of  the  skiff,  resting  the  right 
upon  the  forward  seat.  With  a  light  canoe  one 
should  stand  on  the  bottom  unless  he  happens  to 
be  an  acrobat  of  parts. 

With  your  harpoon  ready  for  action,  in  your 
right  hand,  you  sway  to  the  motion  of  your 
craft  as  instinctively  as  you  would  balance  a 
bicycle.  With  a  silent,  skilful  boatman  behind 
you  there  is  no  sound  of  paddle  or  sculling  oar 
as  the  shores  of  the  waters  you  explore  glide 
past  you.  Within  a  score  of  years  I  thus  spent  a 
thousand  hours,  or  perhaps  twice  that,  exploring 
the  waters  of  the  west  coast  of  Florida,  from 
Cedar  Keys  to  Cape  Sable  and  from  them  to 
Miami.  I  followed  rivers  to  their  sources  in  the 
Everglades  and  the  Big  Cypress;  drifted  with 
the  currents  and  was  paddled  or  sculled  about 
the  ten  times  ten  thousand  keys  of  the  Ten 
Thousand  Islands,  while  my  boatman's  pole, 
paddle,  or  oar  sounded  the  shallows  and  depths 
of  the  network  of  bays  and  lakes  that  extend 
from  the  Big  Cypress  Swamp  on  the  north  to 
the  extreme  end  of  the  peninsula  and  even  the 
keys  beyond  it.    Every  minute  was  full  of  in- 


HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

terest,  while  no  hour  was  without  its  excitement. 
Every  sense  was  appealed  to  and  gratified  by 
the  surroundings. 

Often  on  the  rivers  fragrance  filled  the  air 
from  blossoms  of  magnoha,  wild  orange,  lemon, 
and  lime,  or  flowers  of  jessamine  and  leaves  of 
myrtle  and  sweet  bay.  No  longer  are  trees 
white  with  the  snowy  heron,  but  the  brilliant 
plumage  of  the  red  bird  and  the  song  of  the 
mocking  bird  are  yet  in  evidence,  while  the  ma- 
jestic man-o'-war  hawk  often  floats  above  one 
and,  rarely,  may  be  seen  the  most  graceful  bird 
that  flies,  the  fork-tailed  kite.  Often  a  water- 
turkey  excites  your  derision  by  tumbling  clum- 
sily from  a  tree  into  the  water  beside  your  canoe 
and  invites  your  harpoon  by  swimming  swiftly 
away  beneath  the  surface  of  the  water.  If  you 
yield  to  temptation  and  harpoon  the  bird  the 
chances  are  about  four  out  of  five  that  you  can 
discover  a  possible  cause  of  its  crazy  freaks  in 
the  shape  of  a  little  worm  in  its  brain,  just  be- 
neath the  top  of  its  skull. 

So  many  are  the  diversions  in  following  the 
waterways  that  I  have  sometimes  found  it  hard 
to  keep  on  my  job,  and  have  been  mortified  bj 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

the  dash  of  an  unseen  tarpon  from  beneath  the 
bow  of  my  canoe. 

Birds  have  been  made  shy  and  wild  animals 
timid  by  the  destroying  tourist,  but  there  is  al- 
ways life  in  the  water  and  a  continuous  pano- 
rama moves  before  the  eyes  of  the  hunter  as  they 
search  the  depths  before  the  canoe.  In  the  crys- 
tal water  from  the  great  springs,  in  the  clear 
streams  from  the  Everglades  and  the  inflowing 
tides  when  the  Gulf  is  quiet,  objects  many  feet 
beneath  the  surface  are  clearly  defined.  Fish, 
little  and  big,  brilliant  in  color  and  strange  of 
form,  slow-moving  and  swift-darting,  hold  fast 
the  attention  of  the  sportsman.  In  the  dark 
streams  that  flow  from  the  Big  Cypress  or 
through  mangrove  swamps,  and  the  turbid  tidal 
waters  when  the  Gulf  has  been  stirred  by  a 
storm,  little  can  be  seen  beneath  the  surface  and 
the  eye  wanders  afield,  studying  the  spattering 
patch  where  a  school  of  Spanish  mackerel  are 
dining,  the  sprightly  play  of  a  family  of  por- 
poises in  the  distance,  the  swaying  fins  of  a 
predatory  shark,  or  glimpsing  the  up-bobbing 
head  of  otter  and  turtle  or  the  disappearing  eye 
of  the  wary  'gator. 

S6 


YOU    HAVE    PULLED    YOUR    FRAGILE    CANOE    BE- 
SIDE   A    CREATURE    THAT    CAN    KNOCK    IT 
ENDWISE  WITH  A  FLIP  OF  ITS  TAIL. 


YOU   SOON   LEARN   TO   PAY   OUT   THE   LINE   WITH- 
OUT LETTING  IT  SLIP. 


HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

In  the  shallow  water  of  Florida  Baj^  when 
the  day  is  calm,  the  hunter  with  a  harpoon  may 
float  seemingly  in  air  above  a  garden  of  shells 
and  sea-feathers,  flowers  of  coral  and  sponges  of 
strange  shapes.  Sometimes  there  glides  beneath 
the  craft  a  creature  spotted  like  a  leopard  and 
beautiful  as  a  butterfly,  from  one  to  eight  feet 
across  the  back.  It  is  called  a  whip-ray  and  the 
tail  from  which  it  takes  its  name  is  many  feet 
long,  smooth  as  ivory  and  slim  as  a  coach  whip. 
Attached  to  the  base  of  the  tail  are  half  a  dozen 
serrated  daggers  a  blow  from  which  might  not 
kill  you,  but  would  probably  make  you  wish  you 
were  dead.  You  could  hardly  miss  the  creature 
with  your  harpoon,  and  if  you  did  strike  and  the 
barb  of  your  little  harpoon  held  in  its  tough  hide, 
you  would  have  a  joyous  ride  till  your  line 
parted.  But  you  must  hold  your  hand  and  not 
waste  your  time  when  you  are  hunting  tarpon. 

Those  ugly  things,  there  are  plenty  of  them, 
with  the  wicked  eyes  and  cruel  mouths,  are 
sharks.  If  you  strike  one  of  them  you  will  lose 
your  harpoon,  for  the  brute  will  roll  upon  your 
line  for  a  couple  of  turns  and  bite  it  in  two. 

See  those  three  big  fins  in  tandem  order  sail- 
37 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

ing  majestically  in  the  shoal  water  above  that 
flat?  They  are  worth  looking  into,  just  for  curi- 
osity. They  belong  to  a  fifteen- foot  sawfish, 
and  are  just  disappearing  in  the  channel.  We 
may  find  the  creature,  for  it  was  heading  this 
way.  There  it  comes,  gliding  under  the  skiff! 
See  the  big  weapon,  four  feet  long,  four  inches 
wide,  with  fifty-two  teeth,  backed  by  near  a 
thousand  pounds  of  energy!  Better  not  strike 
it,  for  it  might  strike  back,  and  then  where  would 
be  you  and  your  canoe?  Your  craft  would 
crumple  like  paper  beneath  the  slash  of  that 
sword. 

But  there  is  what  we  are  looking  for,  the  bay- 
onet fin  of  a  tarpon!  It  is  moving  slowly 
through  the  water  as  the  great  fish  seeks  his 
prey.  Your  canoeman  makes  a  circuit  to  get  in 
the  rear  of  the  fish  and  cautiously  approaches  it. 
His  paddling  would  do  credit  to  an  Indian,  as 
foot  by  foot  he  nears  the  quarry.  The  tarpon  is 
swimming  high,  showing  the  big  dorsal  fin  and  a 
foot  of  the  back  above  water.  The  canoe  is 
within  thirty  feet  of  the  creature  whose  whole 
big  body  is  of  shining  silver.  The  canoe  scarcely 
gains  an  inch,  you  may  never  again  have  such  a 

38 


HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

chance  and  how  could  you  miss  so  brilliant  and 
big  a  mark? 

Perhaps  your  knees  tremble  a  little  and  your 
heart  thumps  a  good  deal.  Mine  always  do,  and 
that  is  why  I  like  to  hunt  tarpon  with  a  har- 
poon. I  don't  get  half  as  excited  over  an  in- 
terview with  a  member  of  the  deer  family  or 
even  a  black  bear.  Of  course,  grizzlies  are  an- 
other thing,  because  grizzlies  are — different. 

Better  go  slow  with  that  tarpon.  It  looks 
large,  but  the  really  vulnerable  part  for  your 
harpoon  isn't  much  bigger  than  the  back  of  an 
unabridged  dictionary,  and  you  couldn't  hit  that 
with  a  harpoon  at  thirty  feet  once  in  ten  times. 
Try  it  on  the  grass  at  a  stick  of  wood,  and  you 
will  be  convinced.  I  never  met  but  three  men 
who,  with  reasonable  certainty,  under  the  condi- 
tions named,  could  strike  a  tarpon  at  thirty  feet, 
and  of  these  three  two  are  dead. 

Your  tarpon  is  nearer  now,  twenty-five,  twen- 
ty-four, twenty-three  feet.  Yes!  I  know  just 
how  hard  it  is  to  wait,  but  stand  your  ground! 
When  you  do  throw,  hold  your  right  hand  well 
back  toward  the  butt  end  of  the  pole,  aim  a  little 
high,  and  as  the  pole  leaves  your  hand  give  the 

39 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

end  a  slight  upward  toss  to  produce  a  pitching 
effect.  The  fish  is  turning  a  bit  to  the  left.  This 
gives  you  a  better  target,  unless  it  goes  too  far, 
when  your  iron  will  not  penetrate  the  scales. 
Now  it  is  a  scant  twenty  feet.  Throw!  There  is 
a  crash  in  the  water  as  the  tarpon  leaps  before 
dashing  away,  and  as  you  see  the  line  stream- 
ing over  the  bow  of  the  canoe  you  rejoice 
mightily  and  taking  it  in  hand  too  earnestly  ac- 
quire instantly  a  bunch  of  blisters  that  you  will 
not  be  able  to  forget  for  days. 

You  soon  learn  to  pay  out  the  line  without  let- 
ting it  slip,  gripping  it  alternately  with  both 
hands  as  you  get  the  canoe  under  way.  The 
canoeman,  having  picked  up  the  harpoon  pole, 
helps  with  his  paddle  until  the  craft  has  taken 
up  the  gait  of  the  fish.  Thereafter  you  have  the 
creature  under  control,  paying  line  out  when  a 
sudden  spurt  puts  too  great  a  strain  upon  it  and 
pulling  the  canoe  up  to  the  tarpon  when  you 
want  more  excitement.  Careful,  now !  You  are 
getting  reckless  and  have  pulled  your  fragile 
canoe  beside  a  creature  that  can  knock  it  endwise 
with  a  flip  of  its  tail.  Your  boatman  is  sitting 
on  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  trying  to  balance  it 

40 


HUNTING  WITH  A  HARPOON 

against  your  eccentric  motions,  and  expecting 
to  be  wrecked  any  instant. 

There!  How  do  you  like  that?  Another  foot 
and  the  tarpon  would  have  landed  in  the  canoe. 
It  happened  to  me  not  long  ago.  I  pulled  the 
canoe  too  near  the  fish  when  it  shot  ten  feet  in 
the  air  and,  turning,  came  down  head  first  on 
the  side  of  the  craft.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
a  mix-up,  and  we  were  so  busy  swimming  ashore 
with  canoe,  paddles,  and  other  things  that  were 
floating  around  that  I  forgot  about  the  tarpon 
until  I  got  hold  of  the  line  tub  and  found  that 
the  fish  had  pulled  out  the  harpoon  and  escaped. 

Look  out !  The  tarpon  touched  the  canoe  that 
time.  Better  give  it  more  line  unless  you  want 
to  swim.  See  that  jump?  Eight  feet  clear  of 
the  water,  and  I  have  seen  them  do  twice  that. 
It  will  be  half  an  hour  before  you  can  draw  your 
canoe  beside  the  tarpon  with  safety.  Then,  as 
he  lies  exhausted  beside  you,  a  touch  of  your 
penknife  blade  will  cut  the  bit  of  skin  that  holds 
the  barb  of  your  weapon  and  a  moment  later, 
with  a  flirt  of  his  tail,  your  captive  wiU  start  for 
home. 

If  you  are  not  satisfied  with  the  sport  you 
41 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

have  had,  you  can  hook  your  thumb  in  the  tar- 
pon's mouth,  drag  him  over  the  side  of  the  canoe, 
and  you  will  get  all  you  want.  But  it  is  better  to 
be  satisfied  with  what  you  have  done — unless 
you  care  for  a  bath.  You  have  had  your  sport 
for  the  day,  your  cruising  boat  may  be  miles 
away,  but  you  are  never  too  tired  to  stand  in  the 
bow  of  the  canoe  while  your  boatman  paddles 
you  home.  You  continue  to  study  the  water, 
perhaps  throwing  your  harpoon  occasionally  at 
channel  bass  or  smaller  fish  for  practice  and  the 
pan.  You  count  the  day's  work  as  done,  yet  it's 
dollars  to  doughnuts  that  if  you  catch  the  gleam 
of  a  tarpon's  scale  you  will  begin  the  day  over 
again. 

Hunting  tarpon  with  a  harpoon  is  several 
games  rolled  into  one,  and  is  the  only  sport  I 
have  known  that  never  palled  upon  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. When  I  cease  to  enjoy  it,  it  will  be  be- 
cause it  can  no  longer  be  said  of  me: 

"His  eye  was  not  dimmed  nor  his  natural 
force  abated." 


42 


RIDING   THE   BREAKERS 


THERE  WAS  A  GOOD  DEAL,  OF  A  MIX  UP  AND  WE 

WERE    BUSY    SWIMMING   ASHORE    WITH    THE 

CANOE.   PADDLES  AND  OTHER  THINGS. 


THERE  IS  A  CRASH  IN  THE  WATER  AS  THE   TAR- 
PON  LEAPS   BEFORE   DASHING   AWAY. 


CHAPTER   III 
RIDING  THE  BREAKERS 

BOCA  GRANDE'S  no  place  for  a  canoe  1" 
objected  the  captain  anxiously,   as  we 
paddled  away,  leaving  him  on  the  Irene, 
our  cruising  craft,  which  was  safely  anchored 
within  the  Big  Pass. 

The  wind  was  strong  from  the  west  and 
breakers  were  thundering  along  the  outer  beach, 
but  the  incoming  tide  was  strong,  and  through 
the  deep  channel  of  the  mile-wide  pass  the 
smooth  waves  rolled  without  breaking.  Here 
and  there  through  the  pass  appeared  patches  of 
spattering  water,  marking  places  where  shoals 
of  minnows  had  been  driven  to  the  surface  by 
bigger  fish.  Quickly  gathering  flocks  of  peli- 
cans and  gulls  attacked  the  doomed  little  fish 
from  above,  sharks  plowed  the  water  beneath, 
and  tarpon  leaped  among  them,  while  swift  and 

45 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

true  as  the  flight  of  an  arrow,  schools  of  fierce 
cavally  were  headed  for  the  fray. 

We  paddled  for  the  scene  of  biggest  disturb- 
ance, which  was  near  the  middle  of  the  channel. 
As  we  advanced  the  big  waves,  which  had  looked 
so  smooth  from  a  distance,  became  rolling  hills 
down  the  sides  of  which  we  slid  to  the  bottoms  of 
deep  valleys.  From  each  of  these  we  were 
smoothly  lifted,  up,  up  to  the  crest  of  a  higher 
wave.  Before  we  could  reach  them  the  last  of 
the  school  of  minnows  we  were  chasing  had  been 
eaten  and  already  the  predatory  birds  and  fish 
were  busy  with  another  bunch  of  their  victims 
farther  up  Charlotte  Harbor  and  an  eighth  of  a 
mile  distant.  The  wind  was  with  us  and  the 
slackening  tide  still  favorable,  so  a  few  minutes 
brought  us  to  the  battle-ground. 

Leaving  control  of  the  canoe  to  the  Camera- 
man, who  sat  in  the  stern,  I  took  in  my  paddle 
and,  picking  up  the  tarpon  rod,  cast  the  bait  into 
the  midst  of  the  fray.  As  it  touched  the  water 
it  was  seized  by  a  big  cavally,  known  to  the 
Florida  fisherman  as  jack-fish.  The  fish  was 
about  a  twelve-pounder,  of  much  strength  and 
activity,  and  it  quickly  ran  out  a  hundred  feet 

46 


RIDING  THE  BREAKERS 

of  my  line.  I  was  kneeling  in  a  cranky  canoe 
with  less  than  five  inches  of  freeboard  among 
waves  that  tossed  it  like  a  bubble.  Several  times 
I  reeled  the  fish  close  to  the  canoe,  but  each  time 
the  toss  of  a  wave  kept  me  from  landing  it. 
When  at  last  I  had  succeeded  in  taking  it 
aboard,  unhooking  and  casting  it  out,  half  an 
hour  had  been  lost  and  the  nearest  flock  of  birds 
that  were  fishing  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the 
bay. 

The  fish  had  scattered  when  we  reached  the 
school  and  I  made  many  casts  in  vain.  A  small 
jack-fish  bit  off  most  of  the  strip  of  mullet  which 
I  was  using  as  bait  and  as  I  was  reeling  in  the 
line  a  Spanish  mackerel  seized  what  was  left,  in- 
cluding the  hook.  One  doesn't  play  a  baby  fish 
on  a  tarpon  rod,  and  swinging  the  mackerel  to 
the  side  of  the  canoe  I  put  out  my  hand  to  take 
it  aboard. 

But  a  six-foot  tarpon  was  ahead  of  me,  and 
his  cavernous  mouth  engulfed  my  mackerel, 
while  his  shining,  silvery  scales  grazed  the  side  of 
the  canoe  as  his  great  bulk  shot  six  feet  in  the 
air.  In  the  surprise  of  the  moment  I  lost  con- 
trol of  my  reel  and  when  I  regained  it  and  put 

47 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

on  the  brake  the  fish  responded  by  shooting  out 
of  the  water  fully  two  hundred  feet  away.  The 
drag  of  the  canoe  was  nothing  to  the  tarpon 
which  took  the  inside  course  down  the  bay  for 
Captiva  Pass.  He  passed  Mondongo  and  was 
opposite  Joseppi  when  he  changed  his  mind  and 
turned  back  toward  the  Big  Pass. 

I  could  do  nojihing  to  check  the  fish,  for  when- 
ever I  took  in  line  I  brought  the  canoe  nearer 
the  tarpon  and  started  him  off  afresh.  Gaily 
he  traveled,  with  occasional  frisky  leaps  in  the 
air,  for  he  was  outward  bound  and  rejoiced  in 
the  trouble  preparing  for  us.  When  he  reached 
Boca  Grande  Pass  the  fish  started  to  cross  it, 
heading  straight  for  the  lighthouse  on  its  north- 
ern side. 

The  waves  had  doubled  in  size  since  we  struck 
the  tarpon,  for  the  tide  had  turned  and  the  piled 
up  waters  of  Charlotte  Harbor  from  Pine  Is- 
land to  Punta  Gorda  and  from  Gasparilla  to 
Captiva  were  scurrying  back  to  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico  by  way  of  the  Big  Pass.  Our  course  was 
in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  and  I  had  to  reduce  the 
strain  on  the  line  that  the  canoe  might  quarter 
the  crested  billows.     Higher  rose  the  waves  as 

48 


HE  WAS  OUTWARD  BOUND  AND  REJOICED  IN  THE 
TROUBLE     PREPARING    FOR    US. 


DRAG   HIM    OVER   THE    SIDE    OF   THE    CANOE    AND 
YOU   WILL   GET  ALL   THE   FUN   YOU   WANT. 


RIDING  THE  BREAKERS 

the  tide  flowed  more  swiftly  and  our  progress 
became  less  while  the  line  ran  low  on  the  reel.  I 
was  glad  when  it  reached  the  end  and  parted, 
for  the  canoe  had  ceased  to  be  manageable  by  a 
single  paddle.  Two  hundred  yards  to  the  west 
of  us  the  incoming  rollers  met  the  outrushing 
flow  from  the  pass  in  shallow  water,  and  a  line 
of  roaring  breakers  tossed  foam  and  spray  high 
in  the  air.  Laying  down  my  rod,  I  picked  up  the 
paddle  and  soon  we  were  riding  the  big  waves 
easily  as  we  paddled  briskly  away  from  the  line 
of  breakers.  Yet  the  roar  of  the  surf  grew  louder 
as  we  progressed,  filling  my  ears,  when  a  great 
wave  burst  beside  us,  sprinkling  spray  and  foam 
over  the  canoe. 

I  turned  at  a  shout  from  the  Camera-man  and 
looked  upon  the  main  line  of  breakers,  less  than 
fifty  yards  distant.  The  current  of  the  pass  had 
beaten  our  best  efforts.  It  was  useless  to  fight 
it  and  our  only  hope  lay  in  carrying  the  canoe 
through  the  breakers.  We  had  scarcely  time  to 
turn  our  craft  before  a  breaking  wave  was  upon 
us.  Solid  water  struck  the  canoe  and  lifted  its 
bow  to  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  while  a 
dash  of  foam  blinded  my  eyes  for  a  moment. 

49 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

My  weight  rested  on  the  thwart  behind  me  as  I 
knelt,  or  I  should  have  fallen  backward.  Up, 
up,  I  rose,  until,  toppling  on  the  crest  of  the 
wave,  I  looked  across  a  deep  valley  to  another 
wall  which  was  rushing  toward  me.  Then  came 
a  plunge  into  the  chasm  beyond  me,  with  a  toss 
at  the  end  which  reminded  me  of  the  boys'  game 
"cracking  the  whip"  and  of  occasions  when  I 
had  been  the  cracker.  The  waves  were  too  short 
to  be  taken  squarely,  but  we  soon  found  the  an- 
gle that  suited  our  craft  and  rose  and  fell  as  we 
crossed  them,  with  little  jar. 

The  strong  current  that  caused  the  big  break- 
ers helped  us  quickly  through  them  and  we  found 
ourselves  rising  and  f  alhng  on  the  incoming  roll- 
ers with  a  motion  like  the  gentle  rocking  of  a 
cradle.  The  waves  about  us  had  ceased  to  break 
and  we  paddled  north  well  out  of  the  sweep  of 
the  main  current  from  the  pass.  Between  us 
and  the  shore  were  long  lines  of  breakers  sweep- 
ing slowly  to  Gasparilla  Island  and  sending 
spray  and  spume  far  up  the  beach.  The  Cam- 
era-man bailed  out  the  few  gallons  of  water  we 
had  taken  aboard  and  we  paddled  a  mile  up  the 
coast  in  search  of  an  easy  landing  place,  but 

50 


RIDING  THE  BREAKERS 

everywhere  seven  lines  of  breakers  formed  be- 
tween us  and  the  beach.  We  passed  three  with- 
out trouble,  but  backed  the  canoe  before  the 
fourth  which  sent  up  columns  of  water  and  foam 
that  shut  out  the  view  of  the  island  we  were  ap- 
proaching. 

As  the  broken  wave  rolled  on  and  the  follow- 
ing one  lifted  us  to  its  crest  we  caught  sight  of 
our  captain  standing  with  a  group  on  the  beach 
and  waving  his  arms  to  motion  us  back.  We 
paddled  outside  of  the  breakers  again  and  were 
hailed  by  a  passing  sponger  and  asked  if  we 
wanted  help.  When  I  thanked  the  skipper  and 
told  him  we  needed  none,  he  asked :  "What  are 
you  doing  out  here  in  that  cockle  shell?" 

"Looking  for  a  job  to  pilot  a  sponger,"  I  re- 
plied. 

The  skipper  laughed  as  he  said:  "Your 
friends  on  the  beach  think  you  need  one  your- 
self.   They  are  signaling  as  if  they  were  crazy." 

I  assured  him  they  were  and,  dipping  my  pad- 
dle in  the  water,  thanked  him  again  for  his  cour- 
tesy while  he  threw  over  his  wheel  and  with  a 
genial  "Ta,  ta!"  continued  his  course  down  the 
coast. 

51 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

"It's  up  to  us  to  do  something,"  said  the  Cam- 
era-man. "Shall  we  run  the  breakers  and  get  a 
ducking  when  we  land,  or  paddle  up  to  Gaspa- 
rilla  and  try  the  pass?" 

"We  told  the  sponger  we  were  pilots  and  pi- 
lots don't  beach  their  boats,  if  they  can  help  it, 
so  let's  take  it  easy  up  the  coast." 

Before  we  had  made  many  strokes  we  were 
stopped  by  a  devil-fish  which,  rising  to  the  sur- 
face with  its  broad  wings  extended,  presented  a 
living  barrier  to  our  passage,  more  than  eighteen 
feet  wide.  The  wide-open  mouth  before  the 
bow  of  the  canoe  was  big  enough  for  us  to  have 
paddled  through,  but  we  made  no  movement  in 
that  direction.  The  great  wings  rose  and  fell 
slowly,  tossing  water  in  the  air  with  their  tips, 
while  the  flippers  beside  the  monster's  mouth 
rolled  and  unrolled  as  they  made  and  unmade 
the  curved  horns  which  gave  the  creature  its 
name. 

We  watched  the  devil-fish  and  the  devil-fish 
watched  us.  We  sat  quietly,  afraid  that  if  we 
frightened  him  he  might  smash  us  and  our  craft 
with  a  blow  of  one  of  those  powerful  wings. 
What  the  devil-fish  feared  would  happen  if  he 

52 


HUNTING  TARPON  WITH  A  HARPOON  IS  SEVERAL. 
GAMES     ROLLED    INTO     ONE. 


THE  REALLY  VULNERABLE  PART  FOR  YOUR  HAR- 
POON  ISN'T   MUCH   BIGGER   THAN   THE   BACK 
OF  AN  UNABRIDGED  DICTIONARY. 


RIDING  THE  BREAKERS 

frightened  us  we  shall  never  know.  The  great 
body  sank  slowly  until  it  was  several  feet  beneath 
the  surface  when  a  mighty  stroke  of  the  wings 
of  the  creature  sent  against  us  a  column  of  water 
that  nearly  capsized  our  canoe. 

As  we  paddled  up  the  coast  we  passed  pelicans 
rising  and  falling  on  the  surface  of  the  slow- 
moving  rollers  that  swept  under  them.  Often  a 
long  bill  was  thrust  deep  into  the  water  and  the 
next  instant  pointed  at  the  zenith,  holding  a 
struggling  fish  ath wart-ship.  With  a  deft  toss 
the  quarry  was  sent  up  in  the  air  and  descending 
head  first  landed  in  the  fisher's  pouch.  Tarpon 
leaped  fearlessly  around  us,  knowing,  perhaps, 
that  one  of  their  number  had  possessed  himself 
of  our  only  tarpon  line. 

At  Gasparilla  Pass  the  tide  was  still  running 
out  and  the  big  waves  broke  across  it,  but  the 
channel  was  shallow  and  narrow,  the  current  not 
strong,  and  the  breakers  half  the  height  of  the 
waves  of  Boca  Grande.  The  passage  of  the  pass 
was  delightful  enough  to  mark  with  red  letters 
a  season's  vacation.  We  held  the  canoe  on  the 
front  of  a  wave  through  successive  breakings, 
when  it  tossed  us  about  and  covered  us   with 

53 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

foam,  until  it  hurled  the  craft  through  the  nar- 
row pass  and  within  the  shelter  of  its  banks. 

Standing  on  the  point  of  the  beach  south  of 
the  pass,  where  the  incoming  waves  swept  above 
his  knees,  was  our  captain,  while  behind  him, 
just  out  of  the  wash  of  the  water,  stood  the  light- 
house keeper  and  another.  Our  welcome  as  we 
landed  was  warm  and  true,  but  the  first  to  speak 
was  the  keeper  of  the  light: 

"Your  captain  wanted  to  go  for  you  in  the 
skiff  when  he  saw  you  drifting  into  the  breakers, 
but  I  stopped  him.  Told  him  he'd  only  help 
drown  you,  that  nothin'  less  than  a  hfe  boat 
could  live  in  that  smother.  You  oughter  heard 
him  yell  when  you  went  over  that  first  big 
breaker  like  a  bubble.  ^They're  goin'  to  pull 
through,'  said  he,  'nd  I  yelled  a  little  myself." 

"What  made  you  motion  us  back  when  we  had 
started  for  the  beach?"  I  asked. 

"That  was  more  of  Cap.'s  foolishness.  He 
said  there  was  a  schooner  comin'  down  the  coast 
that  'ud  pick  you  up,  but  I  told  him  that  you 
wouldn't  be  picked  up." 

"So  he  did,"  interrupted  the  captain.  "He 
said  that  any  boat  that  could  ride  those  breakers 

54 


RIDING  THE  BREAKERS 

at  Boca  Grande  could  come  through  this  little 
surf  by  itself  if  all  its  crew  was  asleep." 

We  paddled  down  Charlotte  Harbor  under 
the  lee  of  Gasparilla  Island  in  water  so  smooth 
that  the  Camera-man  said  it  made  him  seasick. 
When  we  reached  our  cruising  boat  it  was  near 
the  last  of  the  ebb  tide  and  the  black  stream  from 
the  Peace  River  flowing  out  of  the  Big  Pass 
kept  within  the  emerald  walls  of  the  Gulf  water 
as  a  river  between  its  banks. 

A  little  later  the  tide  turned  and  the  incoming 
flow  from  the  Gulf  brought  rolling  porpoises, 
leaping  tarpon,  and  hideous  sharks  through  the 
now  smooth  waters  of  the  treacherous  pass.  The 
Camera-man  proposed  that  we  go  in  search  of 
the  tarpon  we  had  lost,  but  I  quoted  to  him: 

"A  sportsman  stops  when  he  has  had  enough," 
and  told  him  that  I  had  had  enough  for  the 
day. 


55 


SHARKS    AS    FISHERMEN 


CHAPTER  IV. 
SHARKS  AS  FISHERMEN 

IF  you're  going  to  fish  in  Boca  Grande,'*  said 
the  captain,  ''I  want  to  go  with  you,  or  else 
have  a  life  boat  to  go  after  you  in.    If  you 
feUers  get  drowned  and  I  don't,  everybody  on 
the  coast 'U  blame  me." 

"Don't  worry,"  I  replied,  "We'll  give  you  an 
even  chance.  We  are  going  to  fish  for  the 
camera  after  this.  Will  you  paddle  the  canoe 
for  me  or  run  the  Green  Pea  for  the  Camera- 
man?" 

"Let  Joe  run  the  motor  boat.  He  can  do  it 
as  well  as  I,  but  he  isn't  used  to  a  canoe." 

"You  want  to  be  in  the  fishing,  but  there 
won't  be  any  long  range  business  about  this. 
The  tarpon  and  the  canoe  have  got  to  be  to- 
gether, as  nearly  as  possible,  and  we  are  sure  to 
be  swamped  sometimes." 

69 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

"I  know  all  about  that  and  I  like  to  swim. 
Shall  we  run  up  to  Punta  Gorda  for  the  Green 
Pea,  this  morning?  Tide'U  help  us  both  ways 
if  we  get  off  soon." 

The  Green  Pea  was  a  little  skiff,  short  and 
wide  with  a  broad  rudder  and  a  tiny  motor  with 
reverse  gear.  It  was  built  for  the  Camera-man 
who  sat  in  the  bow  with  camera  and  plates  while 
the  boy  in  the  stern,  controlling  motor  and  rud- 
der, backed  and  filled  and  almost  turned  the 
craft  on  its  center  as  he  placed  it  wherever  di- 
rected. 

When  we  returned  from  Punta  Gorda  the 
captain  advised  anchoring  in  a  cove  south  of 
Boca  Grande,  saying,  "We're  goin'  to  have  a 
nor'wester  and  may  need  some  trees  to  tie  to. 
The  Irene  isn't  a  deep  water  boat." 

"What  makes  you  think  we  are  going  to  have 
a  nor'wester?" 

"Feel  it  in  my  bones." 

"But  that  is  all  nonsense,"  said  I.  "It's  only 
a  guess  of  yours  and  a  bad  one." 

"Bet  you  a  dollar  the  wind  blows  a  gale  from 
the  nor'west  all  day  to-morrow!" 

"The  only  reason  I  won't  bet  is  because  I 

60 


SHARKS  AS   FISHERMEN 

don't  wish  to  rob  you,  for  to-morrow  is  going  to 
be  fair." 

But  the  captain  guessed  right  and  the  Irene 
stayed  in  the  cove  for  two  days  while  we  beach- 
combed  and  watched  the  big  rollers  chase  over 
the  beach  into  the  woods  beyond.  The  gale  in- 
creased and  the  captain  carried  a  cable  ashore 
and  made  it  fast  to  a  tree. 

"I  haven't  been  in  a  hurricane  on  this  coast. 
Do  you  suppose  we  are  going  to  have  one?"  I 
asked  him. 

"Can't  have  a  hurricane  with  a  high  b'rometer, 
and  this  isn't  the  season  for  'em.  This  is  a  nor'- 
wester,  just  as  I  told  you  it  would  be." 

"You  tie  to  a  tree  for  this.  What  do  you  do 
in  a  hurricane  ?" 

"Do  nothin'.  The  wind  does  it  all.  You  just 
lie  low  till  it's  over,  and  then  if  you  are  alive 
and  your  boat  hasn't  been  blown  too  far  back 
in  the  woods,  you  figure  on  how  to  get  her  afloat 
again." 

After  the  nor'wester  had  subsided  we  an- 
chored in  the  harbor  just  north  of  the  Big  Pass 
and  were  welcomed  by  a  band  of  graceful  man- 
o'-war  hawks.    Some  of  them  soared  two  thou- 

61 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

sand  feet  above  us,  sweeping  in  great  circles,  ris- 
ing, falling,  and  curving  to  right  or  left,  moving 
their  wings  no  more  than  does  a  monoplane. 
Others  of  the  flock  flew  low,  circling  almost 
within  reach  of  our  hands,  displaying  their  tiny- 
legs  and  tremendous  wings  and  inviting  us  to 
throw  scraps  of  food  on  the  water  to  see  how 
gracefully  they  could  pick  them  up.  They  made 
exhibition  of  their  skill  as  aviators  by  swooping 
in  turn  on  a  school  of  little  fish  and  capturing 
their  quarry  without  wetting  their  feet.  The 
little  fish,  in  their  turn,  displayed  qualities  of 
reason,  or  instinct,  by  fleeing  for  protection  to 
the  side  of  the  Irene, 

As  the  outgoing  tide  ran  low,  porpoises,  tar- 
pon, sharks,  and  other  predatory  fish  rolled, 
leaped,  and  darted  about  in  the  channels  on  their 
way  to  the  Gulf  from  their  hunting  ground  in 
the  harbor.  A  hundred  yards  east  of  us  came  a 
tarpon's  high  leap,  five  times  in  every  minute, 
and  we  put  off  in  motor  boat  and  canoe,  which 
we  anchored  thirty  feet  apart  near  where  the  tar- 
pon had  been  rising. 

The  Camera-man  trained  his  seventeen- 
pounder  on  the  canoe  while  I  let  my  bait  trail 

est 


SHARKS  AS  FISHERMEN 

aft  with  the  tide.  It  had  scarcely  cleared  the 
canoe  when  it  was  caught  by  a  six-foot  tarpon 
which  shot  more  than  its  length  clear  of  the  sur- 
face of  the  water.  It  nearly  swamped  the  canoe 
as  it  fell,  only  to  rise  again  a  few  seconds  later. 
This  time  the  fish  grazed  the  Green  Pea  and  sent 
several  gallons  of  water  over  the  Camera-man 
and  his  weapon,  at  the  same  time  sending  hook 
and  bait  flying  twenty  feet  into  the  air. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  had  another  strike,  but 
the  tarpon  was  fifty  feet  from  the  canoe  when 
he  jumped  and  fully  three  hundred  by  the  time 
the  captain  had  the  anchor  aboard  and  the  canoe 
pointed  for  the  fish.  I  put  little  strain  on  the 
line,  though  the  captain  paddled  hard,  until  the 
motor  boat  anchor  was  up  and  the  Camera-man 
approaching.  Then  the  paddling  became  fierce. 
I  put  a  twenty-pound  strain  on  the  line  and  I 
worked  the  handle  of  my  reel  as  if  it  had  been  a 
windlass.  Soon  we  were  over  the  frightened  tar- 
pon which  leaped  beside  us  three  times  in  such 
quick  succession  that  there  was  only  one  chance 
for  the  camera. 

I  supposed  I  had  tired  the  tarpon  as  much  as 
myself,  but  he  started  away  with  renewed  vigor 

63 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

while  I  was  nearly  exhausted.  He  leaped  time 
after  time  at  the  end  of  the  hundred  yards  of 
line  I  had  lost  to  him.  The  Camera-man  was 
unhappy  over  the  loss  of  so  much  good  material 
and  I  was  chagrined  at  my  failure  to  hold  the 
fish.  The  captain  warned  us  that  we  were  be- 
ing carried  towards  the  breakers  and  would  be 
among  them  in  two  minutes. 

"But  these  are  only  baby  breakers,  compared 
to  those  we  pulled  through,"  said  I. 

"The  canoe  is  all  right,"  he  replied.  "It's  the 
Green  Pea  I'm  thinking  of." 

But  the  Green  Pea  refused  to  leave  us  and 
soon  both  boats  were  being  tossed  about  by  the 
rough  water  where  the  rollers  from  the  Gulf  met 
the  tide  from  the  pass.  The  canoe  rode  the 
waves  as  gracefully  as  a  swan  might  have  done, 
but  the  motor  boat  pounded  badly  and  couldn't 
be  kept  in  position  for  photographing.  The  tar- 
pon jumped  several  times  without  giving  the 
camera  a  chance  while  water  from  every  wave 
spattered  over  it.  Soon  the  fish  became  too 
feeble  to  jump  half  its  length  out  of  water  and 
as  the  end  was  so  near  the  Camera-man  started 
for  shore.    As  the  Green  Pea  made  slow  prog- 

64 


THE     LAST     OF     THE     SCHOOL     OF    MINNOWS     WE 
WERE  CHASING  HAD  BEEN  EATEN. 


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SHARKS  AS   FISHERMEN 

ress  against  the  current  it  was  headed  for  the 
shoal  water  outside  near  the  hghthouse  beach. 

The  tarpon  made  a  final  spurt,  of  which  I  had 
not  thought  it  capable,  but  I  finally  drew  the 
canoe  beside  it.  Taking  the  shank  of  the  hook 
in  my  left  hand  I  was  cutting  it  free  from  the 
tarpon's  jaw  when  the  open  mouth  of  a  monster 
from  beneath  the  canoe  slipped  over  the  body  of 
the  fish  and,  closing,  cut  it  in  two.  The  water 
that  was  thrown  over  me  was  mixed  with  blood 
and  as  I  threw  myself  backward  I  nearly  fell 
from  the  canoe,  which  took  in  many  gallons  of 
water.  In  our  attempt  to  balance  the  cockle 
shell  we  careened  it  so  far  that  the  captain  went 
overboard  to  save  the  craft  from  capsizing.  A 
moment  later  he  was  swimming  beside  it,  rest- 
ing one  hand  on  the  gunwale,  not  for  support 
but  to  steady  the  canoe. 

"Climb  aboard  quick.  Captain,  while  I  bal- 
ance the  canoe!"  I  shouted,  thinking  of  the 
great  shark  that  had  room  enough  left  in  his 
stomach  to  accommodate  a  man. 

"Can't  do  it  without  swamping  you.  You 
paddle  for  the  beach  outside  the  pass.  I'll  hang 
on  here  and  swim  with  you." 

65 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

I  paddled  as  if  for  life,  with  the  vision  of  the 
shark-tarpon  tragedy  fresh  in  my  mind.  I  re- 
minded myself  that  no  shark  had  ever  been 
known  to  attack  a  living  human  being  in  North 
American  waters,  but  I  could  not  shut  out  the 
sight  of  those  cruel  jaws  closing  through  the  liv- 
ing body  of  the  big  fish.  I  tried  to  talk  cheer- 
fully to  the  captain  to  keep  the  grisly  specter 
from  his  mind,  but  my  breath  was  wasted  for  he 
didn't  hear  me  and  he  remarked  to  me  after- 
wards : 

"I  ain't  often  afraid  of  sharks,  but  I  was 
scared  blue  that  time.  I  kept  thinkin'  of  that 
tarpon  and  every  time  I  kicked  I  could  feel  the 
shark  behind  me.  I  didn't  say  anything,  'cause 
I  was  afraid  of  frightenin'  you,  but  you  bet  I 
was  glad  when  we  got  among  the  breakers  in  the 
shallow  water." 

The  beast  of  a  shark  chased  me  around  all  that 
night  and  the  captain  confessed  at  breakfast  that 
it  had  bitten  him  in  two  a  few  times. 

We  resolved  to  keep  out  of  the  pass  when  the 
big  waves  were  breaking  across  it,  even  though 
we  had  to  cut  loose  from  a  promising  tarpon. 
Our  good  resolution  was  like  those  made  on  the 

66 


SHARKS  AS  FISHERMEN 

last  day  of  one  year  only  to  be  broken  on  the 
first  of  the  year  that  followed. 

The  next  tarpon  was  a  dashing  youngster  of 
about  four  and  a  half  feet  in  length,  but  it  spent 
most  of  its  time  in  the  air  doing  acrobatic  stunts 
that  made  one  dizzy  to  look  at.  We  were  car- 
ried back  and  forth  across  the  pass,  then  inland 
to  near  Mondongo  and  out  to  the  beginning  of 
the  breakers.  In  half  an  hour  the  fish  had  worn 
itself  out  and  its  leaps  above  the  surface  became 
few  and  feeble.  Soon  it  only  lifted  its  back  out 
of  water  and  I  was  drawing  the  canoe  beside  it 
to  remove  the  hook  from  its  mouth,  when  the  tar- 
pon revived  and  rushing  away  made  successive 
leaps  with  nearly  its  original  vigor.  As  it 
dashed  about  I  was  kept  busy  with  the  reel,  until 
it  finally  settled  down  to  a  strong,  steady  pull 
toward  the  breakers.  Then  the  fish  turned  and 
headed  up  the  main  channel  of  Charlotte  Har- 
bor, sullenly  swimming  near  the  bottom.  There 
were  a  few  rushes,  but  no  leaps  and  the  line  was 
carried  back  and  forth  without  life,  though  with 
a  strength  that  seemed  resistless.  It  was  long 
before  I  suspected  what  had  happened  and  then 
I  turned  to  the  captain: 

67 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  tarpon  to  change  into 
a  shark?" 

"Never  saw  it  till  yesterday." 

"Well,  it  has  happened  again.  There  is  a 
shark  at  the  end  of  this  line." 

"Must  be  so,"  said  the  captain.  "I  thought  of 
that  when  the  fish  started  up  that  way  after  he 
was  played  out,  but  I  didn't  see  any  splash  when 
he  was  grabbed.  Reckon  the  shark  drove  him  to 
the  bottom  and  got  him  there." 

"The  story  books  say  that  a  shark  has  to  get 
under  its  prey  and  then  turn  over  to  seize  it." 

"Turn  over  nothin'!  That  shark  didn't  turn 
over  yesterday  when  it  took  aboard  a  tarpon  as 
big  as  you.  Don't  you  remember  that  big  leop- 
ard shark  inside  Pavilion  Key  that  bit  the  tail 
off  a  porpoise  that  was  hangin'  in  the  riggin'? 
That  feller  didn't  turn  over.  He  came  straight 
for  the  porpoise  and  lifted  his  head  two  feet  out 
of  water  and  bit  like  a  man." 

The  shark,  for  it  was  a  shark,  became  logy  at 
last  and  yielded  to  the  steady  strain  of  the  line, 
but  made  occasional  forays  to  show  us  how 
easily  he  could  get  away.  We  worked  the  brute 
over  to  the  shallow  water  of  the  bank  just  inside 

68 


•I  WANT  TO  SIT  ALL  THE  AFTERNOON  ON  A  SOFT 

CUSHION  IN  A  DRY  CANOE  WITHOUT 

ANY    FISHING    TACKLE." 


FOR    AN    INSTANT    THE    GREAT    BULK    HUNG    DI- 
RECTLY   OVER    ME. 


IT  TAKES  SKILL  TO  HANDLE  CANOE  AND  TARPON 
AT   THE   SAME   TIME. 


SHARKS  AS   FISHERMEN 

the  lighthouse  pier.  A  shark  is  helpless  in  shoal 
water  and  we  soon  had  ours  stranded  where  we 
could  wade  out  to  him  with  a  club  and  a  strong 
line.  Even  a  Brahmin  couldn't  look  into  the 
cold,  glassy,  cruel  eyes  of  a  shark  without  re- 
joicing at  the  chance  to  pound  its  head  into  a 
pulp  with  a  big  club.  We  held  an  autopsy  on 
the  beach  and  regretted  that  our  rescue  of  the 
tarpon  we  had  avenged  was  too  late  to  be  of 
service  to  the  creature. 

On  the  last  night  of  our  stay  at  Boca  Grande 
the  tarpon  community  celebrated  our  coming  de- 
parture by  a  spectacular  display.  The  whole 
harbor  was  filled  with  micro-organisms  that 
made  the  water  luminous.  Every  fish  that 
moved  left  a  trail  like  a  falling  star  and  when  a 
great  school  was  disturbed  the  effect  was  that 
of  a  lake  of  fire.  All  the  tarpon  in  the  harbor 
were  at  play  and  each  flash  of  light  from  a  bunch 
of  frightened  fish  was  followed  by  a  column  of 
fire  which  burst  into  a  rocket-like  shower  of 
sparks  as  a  great  tarpon  shot  into  the  air. 

We  got  in  the  canoe  with  a  tarpon  rod  and 
trailed  the  bare  hook  on  the  surface  of  the  bay. 
But  the  rivulet  of  fire  in  our  wake  and  the  blaz- 

69 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

ing  pools  beneath  our  paddles  swallowed  up  the 
little  light  that  streamed  from  the  hook.  A 
handkerchief  was  torn  in  two  and  half  of  it  tied 
to  the  hook.  Before  it  trailed  a  minute  a  tarpon 
had  it  and  in  half  an  hour  we  had  the  tarpon. 
In  that  half  hour,  before  we  released  the  fish, 
we  rode  in  a  chariot  of  fire.  We  gridironed  the 
pass  with  lines  of  light  and  sailed  beside  a  score 
of  fountains  of  fire.  Three  times  we  played  the 
game  and  only  stopped  when  an  outgoing  tide 
met  an  incoming  breeze  which  broke  the  surface 
of  the  water  until  the  whole  pass  from  the  light- 
house to  the  opposite  shore  was  covered  with  bil- 
lows of  flame. 


70 


THE   GIRL'S   DAY 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  GIRL'S  DAY 

THE  Girl  will  arrive  at  Boca  Grande  on 
Friday  the  thirteenth,  prepared  to  re- 
sume command  of  the  Irene — and  her 
family." 

"What's  to  be  done?"  said  I  to  the  Camera- 
man, after  showing  him  the  foregoing.  "We 
can't  trust  the  child  so  near  the  Big  Pass,  with 
that  canoe  at  hand." 

"Better  run  down  to  Captiva.  That's  a  lady- 
like pass  with  plenty  of  fishing.  The  child 
couldn't  get  into  trouble  there  if  she  tried." 

That  night  we  anchored  just  south  of  Captiva 
Pass  and  in  the  morning  took  her  ladyship  from 
the  little  mail  boat  that  plies  between  Fort 
Myers  and  Punta  Gorda. 

"What   made   you   come   away   from   Boca 
73 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Grande  after  I  wrote  that  I  would  join  you 
there?"  inquired  the  Girl  in  her  severest  man- 
ner. 

"We  thought  you  would  like  to  go  around  in 
the  canoe  and  the  Big  Pass  is  too  rough  for  that. 
We  are  going  to  give  you  a  chance  to  take  a 
tarpon  in  Captiva  Pass  this  morning." 

But  the  tarpon  wouldn't  be  taken.  We  took 
the  Girl  out  in  the  canoe  and  anchored  it  fifty 
feet  from  the  whirlpool  on  the  south  side  of  the 
pass.  Here  the  swift  tide,  striking  masses  of 
coral  rock  in  the  bottom  of  a  deep  pool,  comes 
swirling  to  the  surface  like  a  miniature  mael- 
strom. This  pool  is  a  playground  for  tarpon, 
which  rise  to  the  surface  to  blow  sometimes  a 
dozen  in  a  minute.  They  are  not  looking  for 
food  and  will  knock  aside  the  baited  hook  that 
floats  over  them  as  they  rise.  We  trolled  our 
most  seductive  lures  across  the  pool,  we  weighted 
and  sunk  them  to  the  depths  below  without  get- 
ting a  rise. 

"How  far  is  it  to  Boca  Grande?"  asked  the 
Girl. 

"Six  miles  up  the  coast,  outside,  may  be  a 
little  farther  by  way  of  the  harbor." 

74 


THE  GIRL'S  DAY 

"The  Gulf  is  smooth  as  a  mill  pond.  Let's  go 
up  that  way." 

We  paddled  out  of  the  pass  and  turned  up  the 
coast,  keeping  a  stone's  throw  outside  the  slight 
surf  where  the  smooth  waves  rolled  up  the  wide 
beach.  The  azure  sky  was  cloudless,  the  sun 
sent  vertical  rays  from  the  zenith,  from  which 
our  broad-brimmed  hats  shaded  us,  the  slowly 
undulating,  mirror-like  surface  of  the  water  half- 
hypnotized  as  it  lifted  and  lowered  us,  and  the 
dip  of  our  paddles  grew  slower  until  a  laugh 
from  the  Girl  aroused  us.  She  had  been  hum- 
ming the  Canadian  Boat  Song,  to  the  measure 
of  which  we  had  listened  by  the  hour  in  waters 
two  thousand  miles  away.  Our  strokes  kept 
time  with  the  murmured  music  which  slowly 
slackened  until,  when  the  laugh  of  the  Girl 
awakened  us,  we  were  barely  moving  through 
the  water. 

As  I  quickened  my  stroke  a  four-pound  fish 
leaping  over  the  bow  of  the  canoe  struck  the 
handle  of  my  paddle  and  fell  at  my  knees. 

"What  kind  of  fish  is  that  and  what  made  it 
jump  into  the  canoe?"  exclaimed  the  Girl. 

"It  is  a  pompano,  the  finest  food  fish  in  the 
75 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

world,  and  it  jumped  into  the  canoe  because  it  is 
time  for  lunch.  They  always  come  aboard  ex- 
actly at  noon.  I  have  often  set  my  watch  by 
them." 

While  I  was  speaking,  the  Camera-man 
turned  the  canoe  toward  the  shore  and  we  ran 
through  the  light  surf  till  the  canoe  touched  the 
sand  when,  stepping  overboard,  we  ran  it  high 
up  on  the  beach. 

"That  was  very  nicely  done,"  said  the  Girl, 
"and  if  only  I  had  a  frying-pan  and  a  fire  and  a 
little  lard  and  a  few  dishes  I'd  cook  that  fish,  for 
I  am  so  hungry." 

"What  did  you  suppose  we  came  ashore  for, 
child?  We  are  going  to  eat  that  pompano  down 
to  its  very  last  bone." 

"How  will  you  cook  it?  You  haven't  a  fry- 
ing-pan or  a  portable  kitchen  about  you." 

"I  wouldn't  insult  a  fish  of  that  high  char- 
acter by  frying  it.  It  is  to  be  broiled  and  the 
process  will  begin  before  it  is  through  flapping. 
Every  old  camper  carries  all  the  kitchen  things 
that  are  ever  needed  in  the  woods  and  I  have 
them — a  filled  match  box  and  a  little  bag  of  salt. 
So  you  can  get  busy  setting  the  table." 

76 


THE  GIRL'S  DAYj 

"Where  is  the  china  closet?" 

"In  that  pahnetto  scrub.  You  couldn't  ask 
for  better  plates  than  palmetto  fans  and  I'll 
make  you  some  chop-sticks  or  forks,  whichever 
you  prefer.  If  you  eat  fish  with  a  knife,  which 
is  the  local  custom,  I  can  recommend  some  of 
those  thin,  sharp  shells." 

After  the  pompano  had  been  eaten,  to  its  ulti- 
mate bone,  the  Camera-man  launched  the  canoe 
and  the  Girl  was  offered  her  choice  of  wading 
through  the  surf,  or  being  carried.  Her  choice 
was  the  wise  one  and  we  resumed  our  course  up 
the  coast. 

The  waters  of  the  Gulf  are  alive  in  summer, 
filled  with  finny  tribes  that  eat  and  are  eaten.  A 
school  of  Spanish  mackerel  followed  their  prey 
so  near  the  canoe  that  we  were  spattered  with 
water  from  their  leaps.  Porpoises  rolled  slowly 
at  our  side,  sometimes  lifting  high  their  heads, 
turning  bright  ej^es  upon  us,  and  dashing  away 
in  pretended  alarm.  Prudent  pompano  swam 
well  inshore  and,  knowing  it  was  past  the  lunch 
hour,  avoided  the  canoe.  Single  pelicans,  flying 
heavily  overhead,  dropped  clumsily,  with 
sprawling  wings  and  legs,  into  the  water  near  us. 

77 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Awkward  though  they  appeared,  they  seldom 
missed  their  prey.  When  we  reached  Boca 
Grande  a  mighty  flood  swept  us  swiftly  and 
smoothly  toward  Charlotte  Harbor,  while  tar- 
pon leaped  high  in  air  and  smaller  fish  sported 
around  us. 

"Is  this  the  pass  that  was  too  rough  for  me 
to  come  to?"  inquired  the  Girl. 

"Same  pass,  but  on  its  good  behavior,  which 
doesn't  happen  often,"  said  I. 

"May  I  fish  in  ttie  pass,  now  that  it  is  good?" 

"Yes,  if  you'll  sit  still  on  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe,  whatever  happens." 

"I  won't  move,  unless  a  tarpon  comes  aboard." 

"That's  more  likely  to  happen  than  you 
think." 

A  sinker  had  been  fastened  to  the  line  for  the 
last  few  casts  in  Captiva  Pass  and  when  the 
Girl  dropped  the  hook  overboard  as  we  drifted 
it  sank  swiftly  for  some  ten  fathoms. 

"Something  is  hold  of  the  line!"  she  ex- 
claimed excitedly. 

"Caught  in  the  rocks  I " 

I  never  finished  the  sentence,  for  a  great  body 
shot  out  of  the  water,  grazing  the  starboard  side 

78 


THE  GIRL'S  DAY 

of  the  canoe  as  it  rose,  up,  up,  ten  feet  over  my 
head.  With  a  vicious  shake  of  its  open  jaws  it 
sent  bait  and  hook  flying  a  hundred  feet  through 
the  air.  For  an  instant  the  great  bulk  hung  di- 
rectly over  me  and  I  saw  that  the  wreck  of  the 
canoe  was  inevitable.  Then  turning  in  the  air  it 
plunged  downward,  striking  the  water  a  foot 
clear  of  the  craft  on  its  port  side.  "The  way  of 
an  eagle  in  the  air"  is  not  more  wonderful  to  me 
than  was  the  side  shift  of  that  tarpon  as  it  hung 
above  me.  I  saw  it  then,  as  I  have  seen  it  at 
other  times,  but  the  physics  of  the  thing  is  a 
mystery  to  me. 

The  tarpon  had  deluged  us  as  it  rose  beside 
the  canoe  and  we  were  kneeling  in  water  as  we 
paddled  for  the  La  Costa  side  of  the  Big  Pass. 
Not  a  word  was  uttered  until  we  neared  the 
shore,  when  the  plaintive  voice  of  the  Girl 
reached  me : 

"I  think  I  behaved  pretty  weU.  I'm  sitting  in 
a  puddle,  but  I  haven't  moved." 

"You  did  behave  beautifully  and  I  am  proud 
of  you." 

"I  suppose  I  won't  be  allowed  to  fish  anj 
more,  just  because  of  this?" 

79 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

"Yes,  you  will  and  all  the  more,  'because  of 
this,'  for  now  you  know  something  of  the 
danger." 

I  replaced  the  big  tarpon  hook  with  a  small 
spoon  and  as  we  paddled  down  the  Charlotte 
Harbor  side  of  La  Costa  Island  the  Girl  trolled. 
Her  first  capture  was  a  sea  trout,  so  much  like 
our  northern  weakfish  that  I  don't  know  the 
difference  between  them.  The  next  to  strike 
was  a  powerful  fish  that  pulled  like  a  mule  and 
ran  out  two  hundred  feet  of  line  before  she  could 
check  it,  and  kept  her  nose  to  the  grindstone  for 
half  an  hour,  leaving  her  as  exhausted  as  the  fish 
when  we  lifted  it  into  the  canoe.  It  was  a  chunky 
channel  bass,  known  to  the  cracker  as  red-fish,  of 
unusual  size,  for  it  pulled  down  the  fisherman's 
scales  to  the  tune  of  fifteen  pounds. 

"I  don't  want  to  fish  any  more  to-day!"  said 
the  Girl. 

"You've  got  an  attack  of  nerves,"  I  replied, 
"and  so  have  I.  I  prescribe  the  Bee  Man  of 
Lacosta  for  both  of  us.  He  doesn't  know  what 
nerves  are  and  the  humming  around  his  hives 
will  put  you  to  sleep." 

Fifteen  minutes'  paddling  brought  us  to  the 

80 


THE  GIRUS  DAY 

end  of  a  shallow  cove  where  we  made  fast  to  a 
tumble-down  dock  beside  a  shack  of  a  cabin.  A 
barefooted  hermit,  with  a  beard  that  his  bees 
might  have  swarmed  in,  came  out  to  meet  us. 
He  talked  only  of  bees,  asking  nothing  of  news 
from  the  world  outside,  as  he  led  us  through  nar- 
row aisles  between  rows  of  hives  of  bees  which 
he  carelessly  handled  as  he  passed  as  another 
might  have  gathered  grain.  He  advised  us  not 
to  handle  the  insects  until  they  knew  us  better 
and  in  courtesy  to  our  host  we  acted  on  his  ad- 
vice. We  sat  with  him  beside  his  shack  and  he 
talked  of  his  bees  while  we  ate  their  honey  and 
honeycomb  and  drank  the  metheglyn  which  has 
scarcely  been  known  since  the  time  of  Shake- 
speare. An  hour  passed  slowly  away  and  when 
we  said  good-bye  to  the  Bee  Man  of  Lacosta 
our  pulses  beat  quietly  and  we  could  think  of 
the  Big  Pass  without  a  shudder. 

"We  haven't  a  bait!"  said  the  captain  the 
next  morning,  when  I  told  him  we  were  ready 
for  the  tarpon.  "That  old  Spaniard  promised 
to  be  here  at  daylight  with  a  dozen  mullet  and  he 
hasn't  shown  up." 

"Take  the  shot-gun  and  a  dozen  cartridges 
81 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

over  to  the  beach  there  and  pick  up  five  or  six 
needle  fish.  Tarpon  like  them  better  than  any- 
other  bait." 

"I  won't  need  a  dozen  cartridges  for  that. 
Them  needle  fish  come  right  up  the  beach  and 
I  can  stun  two  or  three  of  'em  at  a  shot." 

"I'll  be  satisfied  if  you  bring  back  one  needle 
fish  for  every  two  cartridges  you  take  with  you." 

The  captain  walked  the  beach  and  stalked 
needle  fish  for  nearly  an  hour,  returning  with 
five  after  exhausting  his  cartridges.  Tarpon  are 
best  taken  in  Captiva  Pass  on  the  outgoing 
tide,  but  the  fly  in  the  fisherman's  ointment  is 
the  quantity  of  seaweed  that  goes  with  it. 

It  was  the  Girl's  day  with  the  rod,  and  a  tar- 
pon was  waiting  for  her  at  the  first  space  in  the 
pass  that  we  found  clear  enough  of  weeds  for 
trolling.  Back  and  forth  in  the  pass  we  were 
towed  by  the  most  beautiful  fish  in  the  world. 
It  was  the  Girl's  first  tarpon  and,  considering  the 
amount  of  contradictory  advice  she  struggled 
against,  the  fish  was  well  played.  Whenever 
she  found  breath  to  talk  she  asked: 

"Do  you  think  I'll  get  him?    How  big  is  he?" 

We  assured  her  that  if  she  kept  cool  she 


THE  GIRUS  DAY 

couldn't  lose  him  and  our  candid  estimate  placed 
his  length  at  seven  feet  and  his  weight  at  one 
hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds.  It  may  be  re- 
marked, en  passant,  that  this  estimate  proved  to 
be  within  fifteen  per  cent,  of  the  truth  which,  as 
such  estimates  go,  was  more  remarkable  than  the 
size  of  the  fish. 

Within  an  hour  the  tarpon  leaped  out  of  the 
water  a  score  of  times,  often  clearing  the  sur- 
face by  eight  or  ten  feet.  The  Girl  exhausted 
herself  in  fifteen  minutes,  but  while  she  rested, 
the  tarpon  took  upon  his  own  shoulders  the  job 
of  wearing  himself  out.  He  dragged  the  canoe 
through  the  pass  and  half  a  mile  down  the  coast 
and  then  returning,  explored  the  harbor.  The 
day  belonged  to  the  Girl  and  not  to  the  camera 
so  the  canoe  was  kept  fifty  yards  from  the  fish 
which  slowly  tired  itself  out  without  making  the 
bewildering  rushes  that  imperil  the  tackle  of  the 
fisherman.  There  were  occasional  mild  rushes 
when  the  tarpon  overcame  the  brake  on  the  reel 
and  gained  a  few  yards,  but  the  line  lost  was 
soon  recovered  and  at  last  the  canoe  was  floating 
beside  a  fish  that  had  ceased  to  struggle.  We 
paddled  to  the  beach  beside  the  pass  and,  step- 

83 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

ping  overboard  in  the  shallow  water,  I  gently 
drew  the  tarpon  clear  of  the  water  on  the  sloping 
shore. 

"Hurrah!"  exclaimed  the  Girl.  "IVe  caught 
a  tarpon!  Oh,  the  beautiful  big  scales!  Can't 
I  have  some?" 

"Sure,  all  you  want!" 

"Are  you  going  to  kill  my  tarpon?" 

"You  have  killed  him  already.  He  was  your 
enemy;  you  have  slain  him  and  now  you 
must  eat  his  heart.  Then  you  will  inherit  his 
strength  and  his  courage.  See  'Indian  Myth- 
ology.' " 

"But  he's  such  a  beauty!  I  don't  want  him 
killed." 

"He  must  die!  He  wouldn't  care  to  live  after 
you  had  peeled  off  his  scales  and  even  the  ethics 
of  the  Camp  Fire  Club  permit  the  sacrifice  of  a 
single  specimen.  Besides  we  need  him  for  food 
and  that  justifies  killing  anything." 

When  we  came  to  carve  the  creature  we  found 
her  possessed  of  a  ten  pound  roe  which  we  after- 
wards voted  fair  food.  The  fiber  of  the  flesh 
was  coarse  and  less  firm  than  we  would  have 
chosen,  but  we  would  have  counted  it  good  eat- 

84 


♦wow."  SAID  THE  CAMERA  MAN  AS  HIS  SHUTTER 

CLICKED    WHILE    THE    FISH    WAS    HIGH    IN 

THE  AIR  ALMOST  OVER  THE  CANOE, 


THE  GinUS  DAY 

ing  had  not  a  pompano-filled  larder  raised  a 
standard  of  unnatural  excellence.  Joe,  "the  cook 
and  the  captain  bold"  of  the  little  motor  boat, 
salted  and  dried  a  few  pounds  of  the  tarpon  and 
thereafter  on  Sunday  mornings  awakened  mem- 
ories of  New  England  by  giving  us  genuine  cod- 
fish balls. 

"I  suppose  you  know  it  is  my  birthday,"  said 
the  Girl  just  after  dinner. 

"We  knew  it,  all  right,"  replied  the  Camera- 
man, "but  we  were  delicate  about  mentioning  it." 

"Of  course,  it  is  your  day,"  said  I.  "You  have 
done  pretty  well  with  the  first  half  of  it.  What 
shall  be  done  with  the  afternoon?" 

"That  tarpon  this  morning — Bless  him  for  let- 
ting herself  be  caught ! — ^made  every  bone  in  my 
body  ache  and  now  I  want  to  sit  all  the  afternoon 
on  a  soft  cushion  in  a  dry  canoe  without  any  fish- 
ing tackle  and  be  paddled  up  to  Boca  Grande." 

It  was  the  Girl's  day,  as  perfect  as  the  pre- 
vious one,  and  we  paddled  up  the  coast  as  before, 
but  as  we  neared  the  Big  Pass  black  clouds  were 
piling  up  in  the  eastern  sky.  The  tide  had 
turned  out  and  we  paddled  hard,  keeping  close 
to  the  beach,  to  reach  the  harbor  before  the  storm 

85 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

struck  us.  We  had  reached  Charlotte  Harbor 
and  were  paddhng  down  the  La  Costa  shore 
when  a  wall  of  wind-driven  water  approached 
from  the  southeast.  It  blotted  out  the  distant 
shore  and  the  nearer  keys.  It  shut  out  Joseppi 
from  our  sight  and  pounced  upon  us  with  a  roar. 

I  held  my  face  down  with  my  mouth  wide  open 
to  catch  my  breath  in  the  deluge  of  water.  For 
a  few  minutes  we  lost  our  course  and  were  swept 
toward  the  pass.  Then  we  headed  our  craft  into 
the  gale,  bearing  always  to  the  south  that  we 
might  strike  La  Costa  before  wind  and  tide  could 
sweep  us  into  the  pass  and  on  to  the  Gulf.  Be- 
fore we  made  the  land  every  wave  was  white- 
capped  and  the  blast  swept  their  crests  like  sleet 
in  our  faces,  but  we  struck  the  beach  by  the  en- 
trance to  a  cove  which  formed  an  almost  land- 
locked harbor.  The  rain  ceased  in  a  few  min- 
utes and  the  blue  sky  looked  as  if  it  had  never 
harbored  a  cloud,  but  the  wind  died  slowly  and 
it  was  an  hour  before  we  cared  to  fight  the  waves. 

We  spent  the  hour  on  a  little  key  which  cov- 
ered but  the  fraction  of  an  acre.  It  was  only  a 
common  sand  key  with  a  few  little  trees  and  a 
bunch  or  two  of  bushes.    Yet  to  us  it  is  a  haunted 

86 


THE  GIBUS  DAY, 

island.  The  ghosts  that  inhabit  it  are  a  coon  and 
her  kittens.  As  we  were  resting  on  the  sand  a 
mother  coon,  followed  by  two  of  her  young  ones, 
came  out  from  behind  a  little  bush  and  looked 
into  our  faces.  We  sat  motionless  as  she  walked 
around  us,  sometimes  coming  close  and  then 
scampering  away.  She  played  with  her  kittens, 
but  shooed  them  off  when  they  came  too  near  us. 
I  snapped  a  bit  of  soaked  cracker  toward  her. 
She  ran  away  and  returned  several  times,  finally 
taking  the  piece  of  cracker  in  her  monkey-like 
paws  and  rolling  it  into  a  ball.  Then  going  to 
the  water  she  sopped  and  rolled  it  again,  after 
which  she  fed  it  to  her  babies. 

I  was  fumbling  in  my  pocket  for  another 
crumb  when  she  saw  and  fled  in  a  panic,  followed 
by  her  kittens.  They  disappeared  behind  a  little 
bush  and  I  started  to  look  them  up,  but  they  had 
vanished  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  There 
wasn't  a  place  on  the  little  key  where  a  mouse 
could  have  hidden  from  us  and  we  hunted  it  over 
and  over.  The  only  rational  conclusion  is  that 
the  coon  was  a  ghost  and  her  kittens  phantoms, 
and  I  have  recorded  the  facts  for  the  considera- 
tion of  the  Psychic  Society. 

87. 


THE   CAMERA-MAN'S   DAY 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  CAMERA-MAN'S  DAY 

THIS    isn't    a    'Girl's    Day,'"     said    the 
Camera-man.    "We  are  out  for  blood, 
this  morning,  and  I  want  every  tarpon 
that  is  struck  held  squarely  up  to  the  canoe.    The 
more  of  a  mix-up  you  manage  the  better  it  will 
suit  me." 

"Then  I'll  stay  home  and  keep  house  for  you, 
and  see  that  a  good  dinner  is  ready  for  your  re- 
turn," said  the  Girl  sweetly,  adding,  "I've  had 
a  good  deal  of  your  society  for  two  days  and 
shall  be  glad  to  rest  to-day." 

We  anchored  the  canoe  beside  a  channel  on  the 
north  side  of  Captiva  Pass  and  both  the  captain 
and  I  put  out  hand  lines.  The  captain  got  the 
first  strike  and  as  his  tarpon  sprang  into  the  air, 
viciously  but  vainly  shaking  its  head  in  efforts 
to  cast  out  the  hook,  I  hauled  in  my  line  and  took 

91 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

the  anchor  aboard.  The  Camera-man's  motor 
boat,  which  was  anchored  near  us,  was  under 
way  as  quickly  as  the  canoe,  but  the  Hghter  craft 
under  the  pull  of  a  healthy  tarpon  and  the  stroke 
of  an  excited  paddle  beat  the  clumsy  skiff  fifty 
yards  in  the  first  hundred.  When  the  motor  boat 
finally  overhauled  us  the  first  and  best  three  or 
four  leaps  had  been  lost  to  the  Camera-man.  . 

"Ouch!"  yelled  the  captain,  as  a  rush  of  the 
tarpon  tore  the  line  through  his  bare  hands, 
blistering  them  badly,  while  from  the  other  boat 
came  the  complaining  cry: 

"Can't  you  hold  that  tarpon?" 

"I'll  hold  it!"  replied  the  captain,  as  he  gave 
the  line  a  turn  around  his  hand  and  the  bow  of 
the  canoe  parted  the  water  like  the  prow  of  a 
torpedo  boat  destroyer.  Foot  by  foot  he  took  in 
the  line,  never  yielding  an  inch  until  he  reached 
the  wire  that  stretched  between  hook  and  line 
and  the  big  fish  was  swimming  beside  the  canoe. 
The  next  leap  of  the  maddened  creature  landed 
it  in  the  captain's  arms  through  which  it  slid  into 
the  water,  scraping  the  side  of  the  canoe  on  its 
way  and  covering  the  captain  with  a  coat  of  thick 
slime,  such  as  only  a  tarpon  possesses.     The 

92 


mif!^  f^ 


THE  CAMERA-MAN'S  DAY 

canoe  was  nearly  capsized  in  the  fray  and  water 
had  come  aboard  till  only  an  inch  of  freeboard 
was  left,  but  there  was  plenty  of  time  for  bailing, 
for  the  tarpon  had  escaped. 

"Where's  your  fish?"  asked  the  Camera-man, 
as  he  thrust  a  plate-holder  in  place.  For  reply 
the  captain  held  up  a  tarpon  hook,  straight  as 
the  wire  from  which  it  had  been  made.  It  was  a 
hook  of  high  degree,  but  had  not  been  properly 
tempered  and  by  a  curious  coincidence  the  next 
tarpon  that  rose  to  my  lure  broke  a  similar  hook 
as  if  it  had  been  glass. 

"I  hope  the  next  fish  will  be  yours,"  said  the 
captain.  "My  hands  are  so  sore  that  I  can  hard- 
ly hold  a  paddle." 

The  next  instant  he  was  standing  up  in  the 
canoe  that  he  might  take  the  line  in  faster  from  a 
tarpon  that  had  struck  and  was  coming  straight 
for  us.  It  must  have  been  a  relative  of  the  first 
fish  of  the  day  for  with  expanded  gills  and  wide- 
open  jaws  it  sprang  straight  for  the  captain's 
face.  How  it  happened  that  the  fish  fell  outside 
and  we  didn't  capsize  I  couldn't  see,  for  I  had  to 
get  busy  with  anchor  and  paddle  for  the  long 
fray.    I  knew  the  Camera-man  had  got  in  his 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

work  for  his  shout  of:  "Good  Boy,  do  so  some 
more!"  had  an  exultant  ring. 

"Ouch,  but  my  hands  are  sore!"  cried  my  com- 
panion as  he  clung  to  the  outgoing  line.  I  tossed 
him  the  heavy  canvas  mittens  that  I  wore  when 
handling  a  line  that  had  a  tarpon  at  the  other  end 
of  it,  but  he  refused  them,  saying:  "They're  too 
clumsy  for  this  work." 

We  were  carried  outside  the  pass,  down  the 
coast,  and  brought  back  to  the  harbor.  Some- 
times the  tarpon  swam  quietly  his  length  in  ad- 
vance of  the  canoe  and  then  after  two  or  three 
wild  leaps  dashed  away  for  a  score  or  two  of 
yards.  Half  an  hour  after  the  opening  of  the 
combat  he  struck  his  colors  and,  lying  panting 
on  his  side,  permitted  the  canoe  to  be  drawn  up 
to  him,  when  the  captain,  putting  his  hand  in  the 
mouth  of  the  fish,  took  the  hook  by  the  bend  and 
tore  it  out  of  the  flesh. 

We  returned  to  our  fishing  ground  and  in  a 
few  minutes  a  tarpon  had  my  bait.  As  it  sprang 
in  the  air,  I  called  to  the  captain:  "It's  my  turn 
now.  Pull  in  your  line  and  get  busy  with  your 
paddle!" 

As  he  hauled  in  his  bait  it  was  followed  and 

94 


THE  CAMERA-MAN'S  BAY 

seized  by  a  tarpon  which  in  the  haste  of  his  first 
jump  nearly  landed  in  the  canoe. 

"Wow!"  said  the  Camera-man  as  his  shutter 
clicked,  while  the  fish  was  high  in  air  almost  over 
the  canoe,  but  he  said  something  else  a  few  sec- 
onds later  when  two  tarpon  were  in  the  air  to- 
gether beside  the  canoe  and  his  refilled  plate- 
holder  halfway  in  the  camera.  The  fish  crossed 
and  recrossed  each  other's  paths  until  the  lines 
were  hopelessly  twisted.  My  tarpon  was  the 
next  to  jump  and  it  was  my  line  that  parted. 
Again  I  took  in  the  anchor  and  paddled  for  half 
an  hour,  doing  my  boatman's  work  while  he  had 
the  sport  for  which  I  had  come  a  thousand  miles. 
He  had  good  luck  with  his  quarry,  for  with  every 
leap  came  the  click  of  the  shutter. 

The  tarpon  that  is  working  for  the  camera 
must  be  treated  with  gentleness  and  judgment. 
When  plateholders  are  being  changed  lines  must 
be  held  as  lightly  and  steadily  as  if  they  led  to  the 
tender  mouth  of  a  nervous  trotter.  When  the 
Camera-man  says  "Ready!"  a  twitch  of  the  line 
should  send  the  tarpon  in  the  air  as  surely  as  the 
"Pull!"  of  the  trap-shooter  is  followed  by  the 
flight  of  the  clay  pigeon. 

95 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

The  next  tarpon  really  came  to  me  and  I  was 
playing  him  to  the  queen's  taste  when  the 
Camera-man  called  out:  "Plates  all  used!"  and 
the  jig  for  the  morning  was  up.  Returning  to 
our  cruising  boat,  we  made  a  hurried  midday 
meal  while  the  plate-holders  were  refilled.  I 
would  hardly  have  given  a  nickel  for  the  guaran- 
tee of  a  dozen  tarpon  in  the  afternoonj  so  sure 
was  I  of  the  crop. 

I  put  out  my  line  as  we  entered  the  pass  and 
a  minute  later  the  lure  was  seized,  but  it  wasn't 
a  tarpon  that  got  it.  The  fish  gave  several 
queer,  corkscrew  leaps,  vigorous  enough  to  have 
been  the  making  of  a  salmon,  though  a  tarpon 
would  have  counted  them  a  disgrace.  It  was  a 
red  mackerel  shark,  the  only  one  of  its  species 
that  jumps  out  of  water.  The  six  feet  of  piano 
wire  between  the  hook  and  line  of  my  tackle 
saved  the  hook  but  cost  half  an  hour  of  time,  for 
it  took  all  of  that  to  conquer  the  brute,  get  him 
ashore,  and  hammer  out  his  life  with  a  club.  The 
hard  jaws  of  the  tarpon  will  grind  apart  the  line 
of  the  fisherman  in  a  few  minutes,  but  the  ser- 
rated teeth  of  the  shark  will  cut  it  as  deftly  as 
Atropos  snips  the  thread  of  human  life, 

96 


1 


THE  CAMERAMAN'S  DAY 

Our  next  captive  was  a  grouper,  big  and  ugly, 
but  with  a  reputation  as  a  chowder  fish  that  in- 
duced us  to  save  him  to  that  end.  Spanish 
mackerel,  sea  trout,  and  channel  bass  came  to 
our  bait,  but  not  a  tarpon  rose  to  it  that  after- 
noon. 

When  the  light  was  too  little  for  his  work  the 
Camera-man  changed  places  with  the  captain, 
bringing  with  him  the  harpoon  he  carried  in  his 
motor  boat.  There  were  a  few  green  and  many 
loggerhead  turtles  in  the  pass  and  I  paddled 
gently  while  he  watched  out  for  them.  The 
green  turtles  were  suspicious  and  shy  and  we 
didn't  get  a  shot  at  one,  but  the  big  loggerheads 
sometimes  took  a  nap  while  lying  on  the  surface. 
We  saw  one  asleep  outside  of  the  pass  and  pad- 
dling more  and  more  like  an  Indian  as  we  ap- 
proached the  creature,  I  brought  the  canoe  so 
near  that  my  companion  could  have  jumped  on 
the  turtle's  back  before  it  awakened.  When  the 
reptile  made  its  funny  tip-up  that  precedes  a 
dive  a  harpoon  was  fast  in  its  flipper.  The 
turtle  started  out  in  the  Gulf  while  I 
paddled  for  the  shore,  but  as  the  creature  weighed 
more  than  our  entire  outfit  I  thought  it  no  shame 

97 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

to  signal  for  the  little  motor  boat.  We  dragged 
the  turtle  up  on  the  beach,  well  out  of  reach  of 
the  tide  and  left  it  safe  on  its  back  to  await  a 
court-martial  in  the  morning. 

It  was  a  drum-head  court-martial  we  held  as 
we  solemnly  sat  around  the  creature,  his  big 
round  carapace  serving  as  drum-head.  The 
turtle  was  convicted  of  being  edible  and  sen- 
tenced to  be  guillotined.  The  captain  swore  that 
its  flesh  was  as  good  as  beef  and  added  that  it 
was  better  than  green  turtle  steak.  The  Court 
struck  out  the  latter  statement  as  being  obviously 
bughouse.  The  Girl  testified  that  the  creature 
was  a  reptile,  which  no  self-respecting  person 
would  touch,  that  she  had  eaten  of  the  flesh  and 
found  it  possessed  of  a  wild  flavor  that  was  not 
agreeable.  She  added  that  it  was  wicked  to  kill 
so  great  a  creature  when  so  little  of  its  flesh  could 
be  utilized.  The  witness  was  informed  that  the 
Court  could  broil  a  turtle  steak  so  that  the  objec- 
tionable flavor  could  not  be  detected  and 
that  any  meat  left  over  would  be  smoked, 
"dried,  and  added  to  the  supplies  in  the  larder, 
which  needed  replenishing.  The  testimony  of 
the  witness  was  struck  out  and  she  was  informed 

98 


THE  CAMERA-MAN'S  DAY 

that  any  further  remarks  on  the  subject  would 
be  construed  as  contempt  of  court. 

The  sentence  of  the  court  was  carried  out  and 
the  beach  watered  with  the  rich  red  blood  of  the 
turtle  while  its  strongly  beating  heart  was  placed 
where  its  throbbing  could  be  seen  till  the  sun 
went  down.  Thick  slices  of  flesh  were  carved  for 
broiling,  while  the  remainder  was  cut  into  thin 
strips  to  be  jerked.  We  made  a  scaffold  of  green 
saplings  and  beneath  it  built  a  fire  of  black  man- 
grove, the  smokiest  wood  that  the  country  pro- 
duced. 

I  was  placing  a  strip  of  turtle  flesh  on  the 
scaffolding,  when  a  dark  shadow  swept  over  me 
and,  looking  upward,  I  saw,  hovering  in  the  air, 
sustained  by  its  broad  wings  with  serrated  ends, 
the  first  of  a  flock  of  buzzards.  The  creature 
settled  on  a  nearby  tree  and  was  followed  by 
others  of  its  family,  some  of  which  came  from 
beyond  the  visible  horizon.  It  was  then  neces- 
sary to  watch  our  food  as  the  table  manners  of 
our  self-invited  guests  were  not  to  be  trusted,  so 
Joe  was  put  in  charge  while  the  rest  of  us  pic- 
nicked and  beach  combed. 

At  the  edge  of  the  waves  on  the  beach  we 
99 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

gathered  pompano  shells  of  delicate  texture  and 
more  colors  than  Joseph's  coat.  We  followed  the 
fresh  trail  of  the  panama  to  its  lair  and  shouted 
in  triumph  at  sight  of  a  Voluta  Junonia,  taking 
it  back  when  we  found  the  specimen  defective. 
We  chased  the  ghost-like,  translucent  sandcrab 
to  his  hole  and  collected  sea-urchins  and  sponges. 
Bits  of  long-buried  wrecks  were  exhumed  and 
dragged  to  our  fire,  where  they  gave  out  jets  of 
green  flame  from  the  copper  salts  in  the  ancient 
hulk.  A  young  palmetto,  or  cabbage  palm,  was 
sacrificed  for  its  bud  and  we  ate  the  bread  of 
the  Cracker. 

We  sat  late  around  our  camp-fire  that  night 
and  slept  near  it  in  cheese-cloth  bars  that  served 
well  as  tents  while  letting  in  air  and  keeping  out 
insects.  Behind  us  was  a  jungle  and  before  us 
an  open  beach  up  which  the  foamy  water 
swished,  following  the  breaking  of  the  slow-mov- 
ing rollers  beyond.  I  was  awakened  at  dawn  by 
a  shout  from  Joe  who  said  a  panther  was  swim- 
ming in  the  pass  nearby.  I  caught  sight  of  the 
beast  as  it  entered  the  woods  on  the  farther  side 
and  then  listened  to  the  story  of  the  excited  boy 
who  was  awakened  by  the  soft  footfall  of  the 

100 


A  TWITCH  OF  THE  LINE  SHOULD  SEND  TPIE  TAR- 
PON    IN    THE    AIR. 


\ 

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BjjP^^ 

^^^^^H^g 

* 

B^!^^i 

:    ■mm 

•* 

*»^s«^'   :^ 

SIB 

jgm.   -Z.: 

m  '^K 

I^P 

I  '^■"•^^",^^.- 

^i^ ^ -^^..-^^ f 

*2-Iiii^^^!^^'    -r- 

LIKE    AN    ARROW     FROM    THE     BOW     SOMETHING 
SHOT    UP    FROM    THE    DEPTHS. 


THE  CAMERAMAN'S  DAT 

panther  which  he  took  for  the  step  of  a  buzzard. 
His  getting  up  to  replenish  the  fire  frightened 
the  brute  which  fled  to  the  pass.  The  tracks  led 
straight  from  far  down  the  coast,  but  they  wan- 
dered about  as  they  approached  our  camp,  as  if 
the  big  cat  were  in  doubt  whether  to  keep  on  his 
journey,  or  stop  and  eat  us  on  the  way. 

The  tarpon  had  returned  to  Captiva  Pass  and 
the  Camera-man  did  a  big  day's  work,  emptying 
his  plate-holders  twice  of  hopefully-exposed  sen- 
sitive plates.  When  the  last  plate  had  been  ex- 
posed he  said: 

"Hadn't  we  better  move  on  south?  We  have 
photographed  the  Charlotte  Harbor  tarpon 
within  an  inch  of  his  life.  We've  got  him  in  over 
two  hundred  attitudes,  upside  down,  right  side 
up,  and  inside  out.  We  have  pictured  him  eat- 
ing smaller  fish  and  being  eaten  by  bigger  ones. 
We  have  views  of  canoe-men  taking  him  aboard 
their  little  craft  and  of  his  knocking  the  canoe 
endways  and  kicking  them  overboard.  We  have 
nailed  him  so  high  in  the  air  that  we  have  got  to 
paint  wings  on  him  to  keep  out  of  the  Ananias 
Club." 

An  hour  later  we  were  hunting  channels  in 
101 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Pine  Island  Sound  on  our  way  to  Fort  Myers 
for  supplies.  Near  Punta  Rassa  a  rain-squall 
struck  us  and  it  took  two  anchors  and  a  lot  of 
chain  to  keep  us  from  being  blown  over  Sanibel 
Island.  An  hour  later  a  breeze  from  the  west 
took  the  place  of  the  squall  and  the  morning 
found  us  quietly  at  anchor  at  Fort  Myers. 


10^ 


THE 
DAY   OF   THE   CAMP-FIRE   MAN 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  DAY  OF  THE  CAMP-FIRE  MAN 

I     WAS  buying  supplies  at  Fort  Myers  for 
our  trip  down  the  coast,  when  a  hand  was 
laid  on  my  shoulder  and  familiar  tones 
reached  my  ear: 

"Well,  here  I  am!  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  me?  I  am  after  the  three  tarpon  you  prom- 
ised me." 

It  was  an  old  Camp  Fire  friend  who  spoke 
and  I  had  long  ago  promised  him  a  chance  at 
three  tarpon  a  day  if  he  would  join  me  at  Myers 
for  a  cruise  "In  the  Good  Old  Summer  Time." 
"I  never  dreamed  of  your  being  within  a  thou- 
sand miles  and  it's  great  luck  that  I  happen  to  be 
here  now,  but  I'll  make  good.  Beginning  to- 
morrow, you  shall  have  your  three  tarpon  a  day." 
"But  I  can't  *begin  to-morrow.'  I  must  be  on 
my  way  to  New  York  then.     I  could  only  ar- 

105 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

range  for  two  days  here  and  I  lost  one  of  them 
at  Jacksonville." 

"You  will  have  to  take  another  day.  I  will 
drop  everything  here,  run  down  to  Boca  Grande 
to-day,  give  you  your  fill  of  tarpon  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset,  and  bring  you  here  to-mor- 
row night." 

"Can't  possibly  wait  over  a  train.  I  have 
simply  got  to  go,  and  must  give  up  my  hope  of 
getting  a  tarpon." 

"What  made  you  think  you  could  land  here  in 
the  morning,  find  me,  bag  a  tarpon,  and  be 
ready  to  start  for  home,  all  in  one  day?  Why 
didn't  you  wire  me,  at  least?" 

"I  did,  days  ago.  Didn't  you  get  my  mes- 
sage?" 

"Here  it  comes  now,"  said  I,  as  a  boy  entered 
the  store  with  a  yellow  envelope  in  his  hand. 
"But  you  must  have  a  tarpon  before  you  leave. 
We'll  try  Niggerhead." 

"What's  Niggerhead?" 

"It's  seven  miles  down  the  river  and  we 
haven't  a  minute  to  waste.  My  outfit  is  too 
slow  for  the  time  you  can  spare  and  I  am  go- 
ing to  borrow  one  of  a  friend,  including  the  man 

106 


DAY  OF  THE  CAMP-FIBE  MAN 

himself.  It's  an  up-to-date,  twentieth-century, 
motor-driven,  automatic,  tarpon-catcher  and  if 
you  don't  interfere  with  the  machinery  it  will 
catch  tarpon  for  you." 

"But  I  want  to  catch  a  tarpon  myself." 
**Oh,  you  can  turn  the  crank,  as  you're  told. 
That  is  all  that  is  expected  of  a  tourist.  A 
machine  holds  the  rod,  a  motor-man  keeps  the 
boat  in  position,  and  you  get  a  front  seat  in  a 
moving  picture  show.  Of  course,  a  good  spring 
on  the  reel  handle  would  get  more  fish  than  you 
will,  but  you  couldn't  go  home  and  talk  of  that. 
Now  you  hunt  up  my  captain  and  tell  him  to 
rustle  some  fresh  mullet  for  bait,  while  you  get 
into  your  fishing  clothes  in  a  hurry  and  meet  me 
here." 

Half  an  hour  later  my  friend  was  on  his  way 
down  the  Caloosahatchee,  seated  in  a  revolving 
arm  chair  in  the  stern  of  a  small  motor  boat.  The 
Camera-man  and  I  followed  in  our  slower  little 
craft  merely  to  see  the  fun.  At  Niggerhead  the 
motor  of  the  fishing  boat  was  stopped,  the  boat- 
man put  a  white  strip  from  the  belly  of  a  mullet 
on  the  sportsman's  hook,  fixed  the  rod  in  the 
machine  for  holding  it,  and  taking  the  oars  the 

107 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

game  was  on.  We  had  fallen  behind  on  the  trip 
down  the  river,  but  arrived  in  time  to  see  my 
friend's  first  strike.  I  heard  him  howl  as  the 
most  gorgeous  creature  he  had  ever  seen  shot 
many  feet  in  the  air  and  he  saw  the  bending  of 
his  rod  and  heard  the  loud  screech  of  his  reel. 
He  turned  the  handle  frantically.  It  was  all  he 
could  do,  for  the  automatic  holder  took  care,  of 
the  rod,  the  automatic  brake  put  on  a  drag  nearly 
to  the  limit  of  the  strength  of  the  line,  and  the 
boatman  held  the  stern  of  the  craft  toward  the 
fish  through  all  its  turnings  and  twistings. 

Yet  there  was  another  thing  the  sportsman 
could  do.  He  could  yell  and  yell  he  did  with 
earnestness  every  time  his  quarry  came  in  sight. 
The  tarpon  was  big  and  powerful,  and  for  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  dragged  his  tormentors  up 
and  down  and  across  the  river.  When  it  slowly 
succumbed  and  was  gently  pulled  besdde  the 
boat,  the  excitement  of  the  sportsman  became 
tragic. 

He  held  his  breath  while  the  boatman  quietly 
thrust  the  great  steel  gaff  beneath  the  throat  of 
the  silver  king,  and  with  a  single  pull  sunk  the 
weapon  deep  and  dragged  a  hundred  and  fifty 

108 


DAY  OF  THE  CAMP-FIRE  MAN 

pounds  of  tarpon  over  the  gunwale.  We  had 
held  aloof  during  the  game  but  now  ran  beside 
the  victor.  By  way  of  a  sportsman's  accolade  I 
touched  his  shoulders  with  a  scale  plucked  from 
his  trophy  and  thrust  it  in  his  hat  band  to  be 
honorably  worn  till  the  sun  went  down. 

"Wasn't  it  glorious?  There  never  was  so 
beautiful  a  fish.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the 
drops  of  water  sparkle  in  the  sunshine  when  he 
shook  his  head  and  the  way  his  silvery  scales 
glistened  as  he  turned  in  the  air!  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  jump  as  that  first  one?" 

I  assured  him  that  it  was  very  extraordinary 
and  advised  him  to  get  busy  with  another  one. 
Within  half  an  hour  two  more  tarpon  struck  the 
bait,  both  throwing  hook  and  mullet  fifty  feet  in 
the  air  on  their  first  jumps.  They  must  have 
notified  their  friends  that  mullet  were  bad  medi- 
cine for,  though  tarpon  were  jumping  around  us, 
not  one  touched  the  bait  for  two  hours.  Then  a 
fifty-pound  baby  tarpon  was  brought  to  the  fish- 
ing boat  after  it  had  leaped  high  out  of  the  water 
nearly  a  score  of  times  in  about  as  many  min- 
utes. 

"Where  is  that  gaff?"  shouted  my  friend. 
109 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

"I've  borrowed  it,"  I  called  back.  "It's  agin 
ethics  to  kill  any  but  your  first  tarpon.  Better 
let  it  go." 

"How  can  I  say  I've  caught  it  unless  I  get  it 
in  the  boat?" 

"Put  your  thumb  in  the  corner  of  its  mouth 
and  slide  it  over  the  gunwale,  only  don't  get  your 
fingers  in  its  gills,  if  you've  any  further  use  for 
them." 

The  tarpon  was  slid  into  the  boat  as  suggested 
and  promptly  put  over  the  opposite  side.  The 
fisherman  trolled  till  darkness  warned  him  to  go 
home  and  he  said:  "Just  once  more  down  and 
back  and  I'll  give  it  up." 

He  was  rewarded  for  his  perseverance,  for  in 
the  last  minute  the  biggest  tarpon  of  the  day 
struck  and  was  safely  hooked.  The  fish  was  a 
fighter  and  in  the  growing  darkness  less  easy  to 
handle  so  that  more  than  an  hour  had  passed 
when  the  creature  yielded.  I  suggested  to  my 
friend  that  holding  the  tarpon  beside  the  boat 
while  he  measured  him  would  entitle  him  to  claim 
the  capture. 

"I'll  count  this  fish  caught  when  he  is  in  the 
boat,"  was  the  reply  to  my  suggestion.     With 

110 


DAY  OF  THE  CAMP-FIRE  MAN 

the  aid  of  the  boatman  the  fish  was  taken  in  and 
slid  out  of  the  fishing  craft. 

My  friend  changed  places  with  the  Camera- 
man for  the  return  to  Myers  that  he  might  plan 
for  a  tarpon  trip  in  the  future. 

"Never  had  such  fun  in  my  life,"  was  his  first 
remark.  "Never  saw  such  fishing  and  I  want 
some  more  of  it." 

"Not  with  me,"  I  replied,  and  as  he  looked  a 
little  startled,  I  added,  "Next  time,  instead  of  a 
day  of  machine  fishing,  you  will  take  with  me  the 
cruise  I  proposed  and  learn  that  you  haven't  yet 
an  idea  of  what  the  sport  really  is." 

"I  am  sure  going  to  accept  that  good  offer  of 
yours.  If  you  can  keep  up  the  gait  of  to-day  it 
would  be  immoral  to  let  the  chance  go  by." 

I  saw  my  friend  off  for  the  north  that  night, 
and  as  he  stood  on  the  platform  while  his  train 
steamed  out  of  the  station,  I  called  to  him: 

"Will  you  come  when  you're  sent  for?" 

"Sure!"  was  his  response,  and  he  was  carried 
away  whistling: 

"Tell  Mother  I'll  Be  There!" 


Ill 


FISHING  IN  A  FLOWER  BED 


CHAPTER  VIII 
FISHING  IN  A  FLOWEJl  BED 

IT'S  my  turn  to-day,"    said  the  Girl  the  next 
morning  over  her  breakfast  coffee,  "and  I 
want  to  pick  posies.    Mrs.  Langdon  told 
me  yesterday  that  a  few  miles  above  Myers  the 
Caloosahatchee  is  one  big  flower  bed." 

"There  are  plenty  of  tarpon  there,  too,"  said  I, 
"so  I  guess  we  can  spare  a  day,  only  you  will 
have  to  go  in  the  Green  Pea,  We  can't  take  the 
Irene  in  that  jungle  of  water  hyacinths." 

When  we  reached  the  masses  of  beautiful 
flowers,  for  the  destruction  of  which  fortunes  are 
offered,  we  found  them  threaded  by  lanes  of  open 
water  through  which  canoe  and  motor  boat  found 
easy  passage.  As  we  stopped  for  a  few  minutes 
to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  our  fairy-like  surround- 
ings, the  great  head  of  a  thousand-pound  mana- 
tee was  lifted  above  the  surface  of  the  water  al- 

115 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

most  within  reach  of  my  hand.  I  hardly- 
breathed  while  the  animal  filled  its  lungs,  with  its 
little  eye  fixed  on  me.  Instead  of  dashing  away 
with  a  snort  of  fear  and  in  a  swirl  of  water  that 
might  have  swamped  our  craft,  the  creature  sank 
quietly  beneath  the  surface  and  swam  slowly  up 
the  river,  followed  by  his  mate  and  a  tiny  mana- 
tee calf.  I  had  never  before  seen  so  fearless  a 
sea-cow  and  I  seriously  wondered  if  we  were  old 
acquaintances,  for  I  had  studied  the  species  for 
years  and  turned  many  a  specimen  loose  after 
playing  with  it  in  the  water  till  it  seemed  tame. 

There  seemed  little  chance  to  play  a  tarpon, 
even  if  one  could  be  induced  to  strike,  but  I  put 
out  a  troll  to  see  what  would  happen.  In  a  few 
minutes  I  felt  a  tug  on  the  line,  followed  by  the 
always  beautiful  leap  of  a  tarpon  thirty  yards 
behind  the  canoe.  The  next  jump  was  a  long, 
low  one,  up  through  a  solid  bed  of  water  hya- 
cinths and  down  among  the  same  a  score  of  feet 
away.  The  scene  that  followed  was  worth  the 
high  price  of  a  tarpon  line  and  that  is  just  what 
it  cost.  Each  water  hyacinth  is  in  substance  a 
beautiful  bubble  from  which  tiny  roots  stream  in 
long  tentacles.    The  floating  flowers  held  up  the 

116 


the;    yCENE    THAT    FOLLOWED    WAS    WORTH    THE 
HIGH   PRICE   OP  A  TARPON  LINE. 


OVER    THE    BOW   OF    THE    CANOE    WITHIN    REACH 
OP    MY    HAND. 


FISHING  IN  A  FLOWER  BED 

line,  and  as  the  fish  swerved  in  its  course  many 
square  yards  of  this  flowery  carpet  were  rolled 
up  in  a  mass  held  together  by  entangled  fibers  of 
roots. 

I  threw  the  brake  off  my  reel,  for  soon  the 
tangled  flowers  would  put  on  all  the  drag  the 
line  would  bear.  It  was  impossible  and  would 
have  been  useless  to  follow  the  fish.  Already  the 
canoe  was  in  the  tiny,  octopus-like  clutches  of  the 
flowery  pest,  held  like  Gulliver  by  a  thousand 
Lilliputian  threads.  We  watched  the  swaying 
masses  that  told  of  the  tarpon's  course  and  were 
vigilant  lest  we  miss  a  sight  of  the  coruscating 
creature  as  it  burst  through  the  flowers.  The 
play  lasted  longer  than  we  could  reasonably  have 
hoped,  but  the  end  came  at  last  with  the  parting 
of  the  line.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment  and 
then  I  asked : 

"Shall  we  try  it  again?    I  have  another  line." 

And  the  Girl  replied:  "I'd  rather  keep  the 
memory  of  what  I  have  seen.  Another  act 
couldn't  be  as  beautiful!" 

While  we  had  been  busy  with  the  tarpon  a 
breeze  from  the  south  had  sprung  up,  pressing 
the  mass  of  flowers  against  the  northern  bank. 

117 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

The  open  lead  by  which  we  had  entered  had 
closed.  The  only  clear  water  was  on  the  south- 
ern bank  from  which  a  hundred  acres  of  flowery 
tangle  were  being  forced  by  the  wind.  The 
motor  boat  was  useless,  for  the  first  turn  of  the 
shaft  would  hopelessly  clog  the  propeller.  The 
Green  Pea  must  follow  in  the  path  made  by  the 
canoe.  Battling  with  the  hyacinths  was  like 
fighting  phantoms ;  there  was  nothing  tangible  to 
hit.  A  stroke  of  the  paddle  sent  the  canoe  for- 
ward a  foot.  When  the  paddle  was  taken  from 
the  water  the  canoe  settled  back  twelve  inches. 
I  knelt  as  far  forward  as  possible  and,  leaning 
over  the  bow  of  the  craft,  tore  apart  the  masses 
of  fiber  and  bulb  while  the  captain  paddled  vig- 
orously. We  reached  the  open  lead  and  escaped 
down  the  river  just  before  a  change  of  wind  sent 
the  flowers  back  to  the  southern  shore. 

We  were  tired  enough  when  we  reached  the 
Irene,  but  Joe  had  seen  us  in  time  to  have  ready 
for  us  a  hot  steak  and  some  cold  bottles  of — 
milk.  He  told  us  with  pride  of  his  own  busy 
day  and  after  we  had  eaten,  his  work  was  in- 
spected and  approved.  The  fresh  supplies  had 
been  neatly  stored  away,  the  water  tanks  filled, 

118 


FISHING  IN  A  FLOWER  BED 

and,  best  of  all,  the  ice  box  packed  to  the  limit. 
The  wanderer  in  warm  climates  learns  to  do 
without  ice  and  soon  begins  to  boast  that  he 
cares  nothing  for  it,  but  the  sight  of  its  smoking 
coolness  pricks  the  bubble  of  his  pretensions  and 
he  admits  that  it  is  like  nectar  to  a  mortal  or 
caviar  to  the  particular. 

"Joe  has  got  everything  fixed,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. "We  can  leave  here  any  minute.  We  will 
be  at  Marco  Pass  by  daylight  if  you  say  so." 

"I  don't  like  keeping  you  on  the  job  all 
night." 

"I  don't  mind  that.  I  like  to  sail  at  night. 
You're  sure  of  a  steady  breeze  and  no  squalls  to 
bother." 

"All  right,  Captain,  go  ahead.  You  take  us 
down  the  river  and  from  Sanibel  Light  to  Marco 
Pass  the  Camera-man  and  I  will  take  care  of 
the  wheel." 

We  sat  on  the  little  deck  watching  the  stars, 
the  shadowy  outlines  of  the  river  banks,  and  the 
trees  silhouetted  against  the  sky,  while  the  cap- 
tain with  a  pilot's  instinct  threaded  the  channel, 
avoiding  every  sand  bar  and  turning  from  each 
oyster  reef  until  Punta  Rassa  was  passed  and 

119 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Sanibel  Light  on  our  starboard  beam.  As  he 
turned  the  wheel  over  to  me,  the  captain  said : 

"Tide'U  be  all  right  for  the  swash  channel  at 
Marco  in  the  mornin'.  Better  call  me  before  you 
try  to  make  it." 

"Sure  thing,  Captain.    Good  night." 

"Good  night." 

I  knew  every  rod  of  the  course  and  had  sailed 
it  a  score  of  times,  as  I  had  often  trodden  every 
foot  of  the  beach  we  were  passing,  but  I  lacked 
the  sailor  quality  of  mind  and  corrected  my 
course  every  two  minutes  by  the  compass,  while 
taking  an  occasional  backward  glance  to  make 
sure  that  the  lighthouse  hadn't  been  moved.  Un- 
der similar  circumstances  the  captain  would  have 
blocked  the  wheel  with  a  stick  and  walked  about 
with  his  pipe,  returning  to  his  post  when  his 
favorite  star  got  out  of  the  limits  he  had  as- 
signed to  it. 

The  cradle-like  motion  of  the  craft  sent  the 
Girl  and  the  Camera-man  to  sleep  and  I  kept 
the  first  watch  alone.  Solemn  as  well  as  soli- 
tary it  seemed  to  me.  The  slow,  rhythmic  swash, 
as  the  Irene's  bow  dipped  in  the  hollows  between 
the  waves,  and  the  far-off  roar  as  they  swept  the 

120 


FISHING  IN  A  FLOWER  BED 

distant  beach  carried  my  memory  back  to  the 
first  of  the  many,  many  times  I  had  hstened  to 
the  same  sounds  from  off  the  same  coast.  I 
thought  of  the  companions  of  a  generation  ago 
for  whom  flowers  of  asphodel  had  since  been 
planted,  and  I  looked  down  upon  the  sleepers  be- 
side me  who  were  babies  then.  Only  Nature  was 
unchanged.  I  fancied  I  could  make  out  the 
"Piney  Woods"  that  heralded  Carlos  Pass,  en- 
trance to  Estero  Bay,  where  often  in  later  years 
I  had  camped  and  cruised,  fished,  hunted,  and 
gathered  shells  with  my  family,  I  felt  that  I 
owned  the  place.  A  roll  of  the  wheel  and  in  a 
few  minutes  I  would  enter  my  own  gateway. 

Then  I  recalled  the  Koreshan  Unity,  whose 
home  is  now  in  the  beautiful  bay — ^that  band  of 
Innocents  in  the  toils  of  a  swindler  who  poses  as 
a  prophet,  to  whom  has  been  revealed  the  scien- 
tific fact  that  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  concave 
and  forms  the  interior  surface  of  a  great  hollow 
sphere.  Everything  here  is  bughouse  and  I  turn 
away. 

Now  come  the  Hickory  passes.  Big  and 
Little,  while  Sanibel  Light  sinks  beneath  the 
horizon.    Every  foot  of  the  coast  here  and  the 

in 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

least  of  the  passes  are  charted  in  my  mind  and 
eyes  are  not  needed  to  see  them.  There  is  Wig- 
gins Pass,  and  Clam  Pass  which  can  scarcely  be 
seen  by  day,  and  now  the  glow  worm  light  of 
Naples  can  be  seen — the  little  seaport  without  a 
port — just  off  our  port  bow,  where  it  should  be. 
We  pass  near  the  head  of  the  long  slim  pier  that 
thrusts  itself  out  into  the  Gulf,  a  convenience  in 
calm  weather,  but  a  peril  when  the  wind  blows. 

The  light  from  the  mouth  of  Big  Marco  Pass 
beacons  and  beckons  us,  but  the  main  channel  en- 
trance is  away  below  us  while  the  swash  channel 
lies  right  in  our  course.  The  Irene  is  headed 
straight  for  it  and  the  boat  knows  it  so  well  she 
would  go  through  by  herself  without  touching. 
Why,  I  have  waded  it  at  low  tide  and  swum  it 
when  the  water  was  high  a  hundred  times.  I 
know  every  shoal  and  current,  every  snag  on  its 
border,  every  tree  on  the  bank,  and  even  the 
shells  on  the  beach.  There  is  no  sense  in  wak- 
ing up  the  captain  and  I  won't  do  it. 

"Well,  you  made  the  pass  all  right,"  called  a 
voice  from  the  companion  way. 

"Yes — yes.  Captain,  and  I  was  just  going  to 
call  you,  as  I  promised.'* 


CHECKMATING  A   TARPON 


i 


A 


CHAPTER  IX 
CHECKMATING  A  TARPON 

MARCO  is  the  name  of    a  post-ofRce,    but 
the  place  is   called   Collier's.     Ask 
any   child   on   the   West    Coast   of 
Florida  about  Marco  and  he  will  shake  his  head, 
but  mention  Collier  and  the  infant  will  brighten 
up  and  say  "Dat's  Tap'n  Bill!" 

Island,  bay,  hotel,  houses,  boat-building  plant, 
and  even  the  atmosphere  are,  and  always  have 
been,  Collier's.  When  Ponce  de  Leon  was  ca- 
vorting about  the  peninsula,  pestering  the  in- 
habitants with  his  inquiries  about  a  spring,  he 
stopped  at  Collier's.  Everybody  who  goes  down 
the  coast  stops  there.  The  only  way  to  avoid  a 
long  detour  around  the  Cape  Romano  Shoals  is 
to  go  through  Collier's  Bay  to  Coon  Key,  and 
one  cannot  pass  through  Collier's  Bay  without 
calling  at  the  store. 

125 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Summer  is  the  time  to  visit  Collier.  When 
the  little  mailboat  lands  me  with  my  family  at 
the  dock.  Captain  Bill  meets  me  with: 

"Well,  how  are  you?  The  hotel  isn't  open,  you 
know." 

"Glad  of  it.  That's  why  I  am  here.  Where's 
that  baggage  truck?" 

Then  I  wheel  our  baggage  to  the  hotel,  we 
select  the  choice  rooms,  and  spread  our  belong- 
ings all  over  the  place  as  if  we  owned  the  whole 
business.  When  the  dinner  bell  rings  we  sit 
down  with  the  family  and  occasional  tramps  like 
ourselves  who  stop  in  on  their  way  down  the 
coast.  Instead  of  the  colorless  crowd  of  tourists 
who  occupy  the  tables  when  the  hotel  is  open,  we 
meet  itinerant  preachers  and  teachers,  lighthouse 
keepers  and  land  seekers,  scientists  and  Semi- 
noles.  Best  behaved  of  the  lot  are  the  Indians, 
for  they  sit  quietly,  saying  nothing,  while  their 
eyes  take  in  everything,  and  they  touch  neither 
knife,  fork,  nor  spoon  till  they  have  seen  how 
others  handle  them. 

We  take  possession  of  the  island  and  wander- 
ing forth  with  big  baskets  return  laden  with  a 
score  of  varieties  of  fruits  from  avocado  pears, 

126 


CHECKMATING  A   TARPON 

bananas,  and  cocoanuts  down  through  the  alpha- 
bet to  sapadilloes  and  tamarinds.  As  evening  ap- 
proaches we  sit  on  the  sheltered  piazza  that  over- 
looks the  bay  and,  if  the  tide  favors,  watch  the 
porpoises  at  play  and,  more  rarely,  witness  the 
dizzy  leaps  of  a  dozen  or  a  score  of  tarpon  each 
minute. 

We  were  to  leave  the  Girl  at  Collier's,  for  it 
was  a  work-a-day  trip  with  us  and  the  chase  of 
the  tarpon  was  likely  to  take  us  where  the  cruis- 
ing boat  couldn't  go.  We  thought  to  stay  with 
her  a  week  and  take  half  a  dozen  tarpon  a  day 
from  the  bays  about  us  which  we  had  known  so 
well  and  so  long.  The  plan  was  a  failure  for  we 
were  caught  in  the  social  whirl.  We  had  a  few 
friends  within  motor  boat  radius  and  picnic,  bath- 
ing, shell  gathering,  and  other  excursions  ab- 
sorbed our  time  until  at  the  end  of  three  days, 
without  a  single  fish  to  our  credit,  we  folded  our 
anchor  and  silently  stole  away. 

From  CoUier's  Bay  to  Coon  Key  the  channel 
twists  and  turns  among  sand  flats  and  oyster 
reefs,  between  wooded  banks  and  around  tiny 
keys  without  blaze  or  buoy,  stake  or  sign  to  point 
the  path.    After  years  of  observation  and  prac- 

121 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

tice  I  can  take  a  boat  over  the  course,  if  the  day- 
is  clear,  without  running  on  a  bank  more  than 
once  in  three  trips. 

Yet  a  boy  to  the  manner  born  has  piloted  me 
through  the  maze  on  a  night  so  dark  that  I  could 
scarcely  see  his  face  as  I  sat  beside  him.  He 
chatted  with  me  throughout  the  trip  with  his 
hand  resting  carelessly  on  the  wheel  which  he 
idly  swung  to  and  fro  without  apparent  thought 
or  purpose.  His  every  act  was  so  casual  that  I 
had  just  figured  out  that  we  were  hopelessly  lost 
somewhere  in  the  Ten  Thousand  Islands  when 
he  leaned  past  me  to  shut  off  the  gasoline  from 
the  motor.  A  minute  later  the  boat  rubbed  gen- 
tly against  some  object  that  I  couldn't  see. 

"Where  are  we?"  I  asked. 

"At  your  own  dock,"  was  the  amazing  reply. 

My  captain  carried  us  over  the  same  course  in 
the  same  mysterious  manner  and  I  was  only 
sure  we  had  passed  Coon  Key  through  the 
broader  sweep  of  the  wind  and  the  gentle  rise 
and  fall  of  the  boat  on  the  slight  swell  from  the 
Gulf.  Going  down  the  coast  I  got  my  bearings 
and  felt  rather  than  saw  its  familiar  features.  I 
was  conscious  of  the  nearness  of  Horse  and 

128 


THE   SPORT   OF  FISHING  IS  IN  INVERSE  RATIO  TO 
THE    SIZE    OF    THE    TACKLE. 


SELDOM     AN     INTERVAL    OF     TEN     MINUTES     BE- 
TWEEN    THE     LANDING     OF     ONE     TARPON 
AND  THE  STRIKE  OF  HIS  SUCCESSOR. 


CHECKMATING  A   TARPON 

Panther  Keys  and  off  Gomez  Point  I  had  a  men- 
tal picture  of  the  old  man  for  whom  it  was  named 
as  I  last  saw  him  at  his  home.  He  was  then  well 
along  in  his  second  century  and  year  by  year  his 
recollection  of  the  first  Napoleon,  under  whom 
he  served,  became  clearer  and  the  details  of  their 
intimacy  more  distinct. 

Sand-fly  Pass,  leading  to  Chokoloskee  Bay, 
was  our  goal  for  the  night  and  nothing  but  a 
nose  was  needed  to  find  it  even  in  Cimmerian 
darkness.  Its  mouth  was  guarded  by  a  pelican 
key  from  which  a  rookery  of  the  birds  sent  forth 
lines  of  stench  as  a  Fresnel  lens  radiates  light. 

In  the  morning  we  entered  Chokoloskee  Bay 
and  crossing  it  anchored  within  the  mouth  of 
Allen's  River,  near  the  Storter  store. 

For  nearly  two  miles  Allen's  River  is  a  con- 
siderable stream.  Beyond  that  distance  it  di- 
vides and  spreads  over  flats  until  it  is  only  navi- 
gable to  a  light  draft  skiff.  Near  the  mouth  of 
the  river  we  caught  and  released  a  few  tarpon  of 
good  size,  but  when  a  mile  up  the  stream  I  struck 
a  ten-pound  fish,  I  returned  to  the  Irene  and 
rigged  up  an  eight-ounce  fly-rod.  The  fish  rose 
best  to  a  tiny  strip  of  mullet,  cast  and  skittered 

129 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

along  the  surface,  or  trolled.  They  preferred 
light  flies  to  those  of  more  brilliant  coloring.  Yet 
their  tastes  changed  as  often  as  the  colors  of  a 
chameleon,  and  they  turned  up  their  noses  to- 
day at  the  lure  that  best  pleased  them  yesterday. 

The  light  fly-rod  is  too  flexible  to  fasten  the 
hook  in  the  hard  mouth  of  the  tarpon  with  any 
approach  to  certainty.  In  the  beginning  the  fly- 
fisherman  will  fail,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  to 
fasten  the  hook  in  the  mouth  of  the  striking  tar- 
pon. Then  he  will  learn  to  thrust  the  butt  of  his 
rod  away  from  the  fish  when  it  seizes  the  bait, 
and  clutching  the  line  or  reel  bring  a  strong, 
straight  pull  to  bear  on  the  hook  in  the  mouth  of 
the  fish. 

My  first  fish  on  the  fly-rod  in  Allen's  River 
weighed  about  four  pounds,  but  it  took  longer  to 
land  tjian  its  predecessor  of  twenty  times  that 
weight.  It  led  me  into  a  narrow  creek  where  an 
out-thrusting  branch  from  the  bank  forced  me  to 
step  out  of  the  canoe  into  water  waist  deep.  I 
followed  the  fish  up  the  shallowing  stream,  walk- 
ing on  the  bank  when  the  bushes  permitted  and 
wading  in  the  channel  when  trees  came  to  the 
water's  edge. 

130 


CHECKMATING  A   TABPON 

When  the  tarpon  had  had  fun  enough  with  me 
in  shallow  water  it  led  me  back  to  the  deeper 
river.  I  nearly  capsized  the  canoe  as  I  got 
aboard  while  playing  the  fish,  which  cavorted  up 
and  down  and  across  the  stream,  leaping  several 
feet  in  the  air  every  minute  or  two  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  yielding. 

In  two  days  I  had  a  score  of  strikes  and  landed 
half  that  number  of  tarpon  after  an  average  con- 
test of  an  hour  with  each.  The  largest  one  was 
four  feet  long  and  weighed  therefore  about 
thirty- two  pounds,  but  it  was  an  exceptionally 
active  fish  and  wore  itself  out  in  half  an  hour 
by  a  series  of  frantic  leaps,  one  of  which  took  it 
over  the  bow  of  the  canoe  within  reach  of  my 
hand. 

During  the  two  days'  fishing  there  was  seldom 
an  interval  of  ten  minutes  between  the  landing 
of  one  tarpon  and  the  strike  of  its  successor. 
On  the  third  day  the  tarpon  were  as  abundant  as 
ever  and  jumped  all  around  the  canoe,  but  not  a 
strike  could  I  get.  If  Solomon  had  ever  fished 
for  tarpon  he  would  have  added  the  way  of  a  tar- 
pon in  the  water  to  that  of  an  eagle  in  the  air,  a 

131 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

serpent  on  a  rock,  and  the  other  things  that  were 
beyond  his  comprehension. 

We  sailed  to  the  south  end  of  Chokoloskee 
Bay,  where  Turner's  River  connects  it  with  the 
network  of  waterways  through  which  tidal  water 
flows  in  all  directions  around  the  big  and  little 
keys  of  the  Ten  Thousand  Islands  which  extend 
from  Capes  Romano  to  Sable.  Channels,  navi- 
gable to  tarpon  of  the  greatest  draft,  connect 
Turner's  River  with  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  while 
from  scores  of  tiny  streams  and  shallow  water- 
courses it  collects  the  output  of  many  tarpon 
nurseries. 

I  began  business  on  Turner's  River  with  an 
eight-ounce  fly-rod  and  soon  was  fast  to  a  ten- 
pound  tarpon  which  thirty  minutes  later  was 
captured  and  freed  half  a  mile  up  the  stream. 
Scarcely  had  a  fresh  lure  been  thrown  out  when 
there  was  a  tug  on  my  line  and,  as  I  believe,  the 
largest  tarpon  that  was  ever  caught  on  a  fly-rod 
shot  a  dozen  feet  in  the  air.  Three  times  in  quick 
succession  it  leaped  violently,  shaking  its  head  to 
dislodge  the  hook. 

Down  the  river  the  tarpon  dashed  till  only  a 
few  feet  of  line  was  left  on  my  little  reel.    The 

132 


A  HUNDRED  TIMES  THE  END  OP  OUR 
HOPES    SEEMED   NEAR. 


Ml 


MINNOWS    HAD    BEEN    DRIVEN    TO    THE    SURFACE 
BY    BIGGER    FISH. 


CHECKMATING  A   TARPON 

slight  strain  I  could  put  on  the  line  wouldn't 
have  f  eazed  a  fish  one-tenth  the  size  of  the  one  to 
which  I  was  fast.  I  needed  more  yards  than  I 
had  feet  of  line  to  offer  a  chance  of  tiring  this 
creature  whose  length  exceeded  mine  by  a  foot. 
One  more  stroke  of  that  propeller  tail  and  my 
goose  would  be  cooked. 

I  yelled  to  the  captain  to  paddle  for  his  life, 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  he  was  already  putting 
in  licks  that  endangered  it.  Soon  he  was  gain- 
ing faster  than  I  could  take  in  line  and  I  shouted 
to  him  to  slow  up,  changing  the  next  instant  to 
a  cry  to  go  ahead.  When  the  trouble  was  over  I 
asked  the  captain  if  I  had  screamed  at  him  very 
often. 

"  'Most  all  the  time,  but  I  didn't  mind.  I  knew 
you  was  excited  and  didn't  rightly  know  what 
you  said,"  was  his  reply. 

The  line  never  again  ran  so  low  as  in  that  first 
dash  of  the  tarpon.  Yet  a  hundred  times  the  end 
of  our  hopes  seemed  near,  but  always  the  fish 
swam  slower,  or  the  captain  paddled  faster.  The 
wild  leaps  of  the  creature  were  startling  but  wel- 
come for  they  tired  the  tarpon  without  carrying 
away  line.    We  had  followed  the  fish  up,  down, 

133 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

and  across  the  river  and  after  an  hour's  struggle 
were  well  out  in  the  bay,  yet  at  all  times  we  had 
kept  within  at  least  two  hundred  feet  of  our 
quarry. 

Always  we  feared  the  tarpon's  getting  too  far 
away.  Sometimes  the  danger  was  of  its  coming 
too  near  and  more  than  once  it  sprang  at  us  with 
wide  open  jaws,  falling  short  of  the  canoe  by 
inches  only,  and  once  it  sprang  fairly  against 
the  captain,  nearly  capsizing  the  craft. 

The  sport  of  fishing  is  in  inverse  ratio  to  the 
size  of  the  tackle  compared  with  the  activity, 
strength,  and  weight  of  the  fish.  Linus  Yale,  as 
skilful  with  trout  as  he  was  ingenious  with  locks, 
used  to  hitch  his  horse  to  a  tree  by  a  mountain 
brook  near  his  New  England  home  and  forget 
for  the  day  the  anxieties  of  the  inventor  and  the 
burdens  of  the  manufacturer.  All  trouble  was 
left  behind  as  he  constructed  a  line  from  hairs  in 
his  horse's  tail,  attached  a  hook  of  his  own  forg- 
ing, tinier  than  was  ever  made  before,  with  an  al- 
most microscopic  fly,  and  with  a  reed-like  rod, 
made  on  the  ground,  captured  the  wariest  trout 
in  the  brook.  When  with  this  flimsy  tackle  he 
landed  a  trout  of  large  size  he  rejoiced  more 

134! 


CHECKMATING  A   TARPON 

than  when  picking  the  Hobbs  lock  gave  him 
world-wide  fame. 

As  I  followed  my  big  fish  the  game  increased 
in  interest.  It  was  more  like  chess  than  fishing. 
Strength  availed  little,  for  the  utmost  strain  I 
could  put  on  the  line  through  the  light  rod  was 
no  restraint  on  the  powerful  tarpon.  The  crea- 
ture must  be  made  to  tire  itself  out  and  do  the 
chief  work  in  its  own  capture  and  at  the  same 
time  be  kept  within  the  narrow  limits  that  the 
shortness  of  my  line  estabUshed. 

When  the  reel  was  nearly  empty  the  line  was 
held  lightly,  while  the  captain  paddled  strongly. 
As  we  neared  the  quarry  a  quick  twitch  of  the 
line  usually  sent  the  tarpon  high  in  the  air  and 
off  on  another  dash.  As  the  reel  buzzed  the  cap- 
tain invited  apoplexy  by  his  efforts,  while  I  en- 
couraged him  to  increase  them. 

At  times  the  fish  seemed  to  be  onto  our  game 
and  refused  to  jump  when  called  on.  It  even 
became  immune  to  the  splash  of  the  paddle  and 
made  an  ingenious  move  that  threatened  check- 
mate. The  tarpon  was  beside  us  and  the  line 
short  when  it  dove  beneath  the  canoe  and  swam 
swiftly  away  on  the  other  side.    There  is  only 

135 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

one  move  to  meet  that  attack  and  it  usually  ends 
in  a  broken  rod  and  a  lost  fish.  I  dropped  the 
rod  flat  on  the  water,  thrusting  it  beneath  the 
surface  elbow  deep,  while  my  finger  kept  a  light 
pressure  on  the  line.  Happily  the  tip  swung  to 
the  tarpon  without  breaking  and  the  fish  was 
played  from  a  rod  under  water  until  the  captain 
had  turned  the  canoe  around. 

The  strain  of  a  single  pound  on  a  fly-rod  is 
more  exhausting  to  the  fisherman  than  ten  or 
even  twenty  times  that  pull  on  a  tarpon  rod  and 
I  was  glad  when  the  Camera-man  said  he  had 
used  his  last  plate  and  offered  to  change  places 
with  me.  Usually  when  plates  were  out  we  got 
rid  of  the  fish  as  soon  as  we  could,  but  this  was 
an  unusual  fish,  destined  to  hold  long  the  record 
for  an  eight-ounce  rod  capture,  if  once  we  could 
slide  it  over  the  side  of  the  little  canoe.  The 
craft  might  be  swamped  the  next  minute,  but 
the  record  would  be  safe. 

The  tarpon  noticed  the  new  hand  at  the  bel- 
lows and  went  over  his  repertoire  brilliantly.  He 
traveled  a  mile  up  the  river  in  search  of  a  place 
to  hide  from  the  human  gadfly  that  worried  him 
and  sulked  under  a  bank  for  some  minutes  be- 

136 


CHECKMATING  A   TARPON 

fore  allowing  himself  to  be  coaxed  out.  He 
pranced  down  the  stream  to  the  bay,  with  occa- 
sional leaps  by  the  way,  and  the  captain 
struggled  mightily  every  foot  of  the  course  to 
keep  within  the  limits  of  the  line.  In  the  bay  a 
new  terror  possessed  him  and  he  dashed  about  as 
if  crazy. 

He  saw  his  fate  in  the  thing  that  he  couldn't 
shake  off,  as  the  creature  of  the  forest  knows 
when  the  wolf  is  on  his  track,  and  he  exhausted 
himself  in  his  panic.  Then  he  rolled  over  and 
lay  quietly  on  his  back  with  gasping  gills  in  ap- 
parent surrender  while  the  canoe  was  paddled  be- 
side him. 

"I'm  afraid  we'll  capsize  if  I  take  it  aboard," 
said  the  captain. 

"Get  it  in  the  canoe  first  and  capsize  after- 
ward all  you  want,  only  don't  move  till  I  measure 
it,"  replied  the  Camera-man. 

After  the  tarpon  had  been  found  to  measure 
six  feet  six  inches,  the  captain  got  a  grip  on  the 
corner  of  its  mouth  and  lifting  its  head  over  the 
side  of  the  canoe  was  about  to  slide  it  inside 
when  a  powerful  stroke  of  the  fish's  tail  sent  the 
head  outboard  and  the  captain  was  given  his 

137 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

choice  between  swamping  the  canoe  or  releasing 
the  fish.  He  let  the  tarpon  go,  for  which  I 
abused  him  at  the  time,  but  forgave  him  later 
when  I  saw  that  the  hook  was  still  fast  in  the 
creature's  mouth.  It  was  many  minutes  before 
the  captain  got  another  chance  at  the  fish,  but 
when  he  had  renewed  his  hold  and  was  ready  to 
haul  it  aboard  he  sang  out  to  me: 

"I'll  hang  to  him  this  time  if  he  lands  me  in — 
Halifax,  so  look  out  for  the  pieces  of  your 
canoe!" 

But  the  tarpon  slid  into  the  canoe  without  a 
flutter  and  slipping  under  the  thwarts  lay  flat 
in  the  bottom.  The  trouble  came  later  when,  the 
rod  having  been  laid  aside.  Camera-man  and 
Captain  worked  together  to  get  the  slippery 
thing  out  from  under  the  thwarts  and  overboard. 
They  would  probably  have  swamped  the  canoe 
anyhow,  but  the  tarpon  made  the  thing  sure  and 
secured  his  revenge  by  a  flap  of  his  tail  that 
landed  him  in  the  bay  with  his  tormentors.  It 
was  a  fitting  end  to  the  adventure — for,  after 
the  final  scrimmage,  canoe  and  canoe  men  sadly 
needed  the  scrubbing  they  got  in  the  nearby 
shallow  water  to  which  they  swam. 

138 


THE    TARPON    SWAMPS    US 


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CHAPTER  X 
THE  TARPON  SWAMPS  US 

WE  hit  the  top  of  the  tarpon  season  at 
Turner's  River  and  for  three  days 
the  fish  stood  in  line,  waiting  their 
turn  like  metropolitans  seeking  good  seats  at  the 
opera  or  holding  their  places  in  the  bread  line. 
No  sooner  had  we  turned  loose  an  exhausted 
tarpon  than  a  fresh  one  presented  itself  for  the 
vacant  chair.  Twenty  tarpon  a  day  was  our 
score,  of  fish  that  ran  from  ten  to  thirty  pounds 
each.  Most  of  them  were  taken  on  the  fly-rod, 
for  which  they  were  too  large,  as  their  weight 
was  light  for  a  heavy  rod  in  such  blase  hands  as 
ours  were  becoming. 

Much  of  the  action  of  a  fly-rod  is  wasted  with 
a  fish  of  the  tarpon  type  weighing  over  five 
pounds  and  much  time  lost  from  the  camera 
standpoint  since  it  is  hard  to  hold  the  fish  near 

141 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

the  canoe.  A  stiff,  single-action  tournament 
style  of  fly-rod  fits  the  agile  baby  tarpon  down 
to  the  ground,  while  a  withy,  double-action  ar- 
ticle couldn't  follow  for  a  minute  the  fish's 
changes  of  mind. 

"These  fish  are  too  little  for  the  big  rod,  too 
big  for  the  little  rod  and  we  have  nothing  be- 
tween," I  observed  to  the  Camera-man  just  after 
landing  on  a  tarpon  rod  a  ten-pound  fish  in  as 
many  minutes. 

"Let's  go  down  the  coast,"  was  the  reply. 
"There  are  big  fish  in  the  big  rivers  and  babies 
in  the  creeks  at  the  head  of  Harney." 

I  agreed  to  this  as  I  threw  out  a  freshly  baited 
hook  and  trolled  for  another  ten-pounder.  But 
it  was  a  tarpon  of  ten  stone  or  more  that  struck 
before  twenty  feet  of  line  had  run  out  and  as  the 
creature  shot  up  toward  the  sky  I  shouted: 
"There's  a  seven-footer  for  you,  the  biggest  tarp 
of  the  trip!" 

It  may  have  been  the  biggest,  but  I  shall  never 
know  for  sure.  I  threw  myself  back  on  the  rod 
with  a  force  that  would  have  slung  a  little  fish 
to  the  horizon  and  my  guaranteed  rod  snapped 
like  glass.     I  hung  on  to  the  broken  rod  and 

142 


THE  TARPON  SWAMPS  US 

the  tarpon  played  me  for  a  few  minutes  after 
which  he  sailed  away  with  half  of  my  line  as  a 
trophy. 

Before  running  down  the  coast  we  went  back 
to  the  Storter  store  in  search  of  a  substitute  for 
the  broken  rod.  The  captain  said  he  could  make 
a  better  rod  than  the  old  one  out  of  anything, 
from  a  wagon  tongue  to  a  flag  pole.  We  bought 
a  heavy  hickory  hoe  handle,  which  looked  un- 
breakable, and  furnished  it  with  extra  fittings 
which  I  had  on  hand.  As  we  sailed  down  the 
coast  I  mended  the  broken  rod  and  we  entered 
on  the  new  campaign  with  three  heavy  tarpon 
rods  in  commission. 

We  were  cruising  in  the  land  of  the  crusta- 
cean. There  were  reefs  of  oysters  along  the 
coast.  Oyster  bars  guarded  the  mouths  of  the 
rivers  and  great  bunches  of  the  bivalves  clung 
like  fruit  to  the  branches  of  the  trees.  Beneath 
us  was  one  vast  clam  bed  and  dropping  our  an- 
chor we  drove  poles  in  the  mud  down  which  we 
climbed  and  to  which  we  clung  with  one  hand 
while  digging  clams  out  of  the  mud  with  the 
other.  We  gathered  a  hundred  or  more,  as  many 
as  the  most  sanguine  of  us  believed  we  could  eat. 

143 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

They  ranged  in  size  from  that  of  the  little  neck 
of  New  York  to  giant  quahaugs  of  which  single 
specimens  weighed  over  five  pounds. 

Our  anchorage  that  night  was  beside  the  little 
pelican  key  that  separates  the  mouths  of  Broad 
and  Rodger's  rivers  and  we  roasted  clams  on  the 
beach  beside  the  latter.  It  was  the  toss  of  a 
copper  which  stream  we  should  fish  in  the  marn- 
ing.  Their  sources  and  mouths  were  the  same  in 
each  case  and  a  creek  united  their  middles  like 
the  band  of  the  Siamese  twins.  We  chose 
Rodger's  River  because  of  its  beauty,  the  great 
royal  palms  that  adorned  it,  and  the  tragic 
legends  connected  with  its  abandoned  plantation, 
rotting  house,  and  overgrown  graves. 

Big  herons  rose  sluggishly  from  flooded  banks 
before  us  and  with  hoarse  cries  flew  up  the  river, 
dangling  their  preposterous  legs.  Fly-up-the- 
creeks  flitted  silently  away,  while  lunatic  snake 
birds,  made  crazy  by  worms  in  their  brains, 
watched  us  from  branches  that  overhung  the 
stream  and  when  we  were  almost  beneath  them 
dropped  into  the  water  as  awkwardly  as  if  they 
had  been  shot. 

We  admired  beautiful  trees,  great  vines,  fra- 
144 


THE   TARPON  SWAMPS   US 

grant  flowers,  and  blossoming  orchids  as  the  tar- 
pon bait  was  trolled  from  the  trailing  canoe,  and 
from  the  mouth  of  the  river  to  the  cut-off  no 
tarpon  disturbed  our  meditations.  Hurrying 
sharks  showed  huge  fins  above  the  surface, 
slowly-rolling  porpoises  turned  keen  eyes  upon 
us  as  they  passed,  otters  lifted  their  little  round 
heads,  and  a  great  manatee,  frightened  by  a  sud- 
den glimpse  of  our  outfit,  left  a  long  wake  of 
swirls  like  those  of  an  outgoing  liner. 

Crossing  to  Broad  River  by  the  crooked  cut- 
off, we  traveled  a  mile  and  a  half  to  gain  a  third 
of  that  distance.  Projecting  roots  held  us  back, 
overhanging  branches  brushed  us  harshly  while 
with  bare  faces  we  swept  away  scores  of  great 
spider  habitations,  suspended  from  bridges  which 
their  occupants  had  engineered  across  the  stream. 
Yet  I  had  little  cause  of  complaint,  since  the  only 
spiders  that  ran  down  my  neck  were  the  few  that 
escaped  the  Camera-man  whose  position  in  the 
bow  of  the  leading  craft  gave  him  the  first  chance 
at  the  arachnids,  or  vice  versa. 

As  there  wasn't  a  tarpon  in  Rodger's  River, 
we  looked  upon  trolling  down  its  companion 
stream  as  a  mere  formality,  yet  no  sooner  had  I 

145 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

put  out  my  line  after  turning  down  Broad  River 
than  the  bait  was  seized  by  a  splendid  specimen 
of  the  silver  king.  The  Camera-man  missed  the 
early  leaps,  for  he  had  been  slow  in  getting  out 
his  artillery,  but  after  it  had  been  brought  into 
action  he  was  kept  busy.  We  were  carried  up  in- 
to Broad  River  Bay,  where  the  channels  were  so 
overhung  with  manatee  grass  that  at  every  turn 
my  line  was  loaded  almost  to  the  breaking  point. 

When  the  motor  boat,  maneuvering  for  posi- 
tion, got  out  of  the  middle  of  the  channel,  the 
propeller  twisted  a  wad  of  the  grass  about  the 
shaft  and  the  motor  stopped.  Then  Joe  leaned 
over  the  stern  of  the  boat,  with  head  and  arms 
under  water  as  he  tore  at  the  clinging  mass, 
while  the  Camera-man  relieved  his  mind  by  ener- 
getic exhortation. 

The  tarpon  led  us  through  Broad  River  Bay 
to  a  series  of  deep  channels  which  we  had  long 
known  as  the  home  of  the  manatee,  several  speci- 
mens of  which  we  had  captured  there.  The  sur- 
render of  our  quarry  came  after  we  had  entered 
the  broad,  shallow,  island-dotted  bay  that 
stretches  from  the  heads  of  Broad,  Rodgers,  and 
Lossmans  Rivers  across  to  the  narrow  strip  of 

146 


THE   TARPON  SWAMPS   US 

swamp  prairie  and  forest  that  separates  it  from 
the  Everglades. 

After  releasing  the  tarpon  I  fished  no  more 
till  we  were  back  in  Broad  River,  when,  again, 
on  putting  out  my  line,  the  bait  was  seized  by  a 
tarpon  whose  length  we  estimated  at  five  feet 
since  we  never  had  a  chance  to  measure  it.  The 
fish  attended  strictly  to  business  and  after  a  few 
brilliant,  preliminary  jumps  made  straight  for 
the  cut-off,  where,  after  turning  a  few  corners 
and  tying  the  line  around  some  snags,  it  leaped 
joyously  high  in  air,  free  of  all  bonds  and  in  full 
possession  of  a  valuable  tarpon  hook  and  a  good- 
ly section  of  costly  line. 

We  traveled  a  mile  down  the  river  before 
throwing  out  another  lure  and  found  ourselves 
in  a  tarpon  town  meeting.  There  were  scores  of 
them,  leaping  and  cavorting,  dashing  hither  and 
yon,  and  behaving  as  if  at  a  big  banquet,  but  it 
was  a  Barmecide  feast,  for  not  a  food  fish  could 
be  seen. 

"Hang  to  'em,  if  you  can,"  called  out  the 
Camera-man  as  I  baited  my  hook;  "I've  had  bad 
luck  with  the  fish  so  far  to-day." 

"The  next  tarpon  stays  with  me,  or  I  go  with 
147 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

him,"  was  my  reply  and  the  next  minute  one  of 
the  family  was  over  my  head,  fiercely  shaking  his 
wide-open  jaws  to  get  rid  of  the  hook.  But  the 
hook  was  fast  and  I  hung  to  the  line  through  the 
tarpon's  first  run,  though  the  canoe  was  nearly 
capsized  before  the  captain  could  head  it  for  the 
flying  fish.  The  thwarted  creature,  after  three 
wild  leaps,  headed  straight  for  the  canoe  and, 
diving  under  it,  brought  the  strain  of  his  weight 
on  the  tip  of  the  rod  which  broke  in  two  parts. 
I  clung  to  the  butt  and,  as  the  fish  was  of  medium 
size,  soon  brought  it  to  the  captain's  hand,  despite 
the  broken  tip. 

We  had  now  no  rod  nearer  than  the  Irene, 
which  was  five  miles  distant,  but  the  fish  were  in 
biting  humor  and  the  opportunity  was  not  to  be 
lost.  There  was  a  hand  line  in  the  motor  boat 
and  I  handed  it  to  the  captain,  for  my  muscles 
were  aching  and  I  thought  to  rest  them  with  the 
paddle.  The  broken  rod  was  left  with  the 
Camera-man  for  both  the  hand  line  and  the  cap- 
tain were  strong,  mix-ups  with  big  tarpon  cer- 
tain, and  a  swim  in  the  river  the  probable  out- 
come. 

While  the  captain  fished,  my  work  with  the 
148 


PRESCRIBED    THE    BEE    MAN    OF    LACOSTA   FOR 
US    BOTH." 


THE  TARPON  SWAMPS   US 

paddle  was  light  and  consisted  in  keeping  the 
canoe  head-on  to  the  fish.  The  tarpon  had  the 
same  chance  of  escaping  the  canoe  that  a  horse 
in  harness  has  of  running  away  from  the  whiffle- 
tree.  Yet  as  when  a  horse  bolts  from  the  road 
there  is  danger  to  the  outfit,  so  when  a  tarpon 
to  which  the  canoe  was  hitched  dashed  off  to  one 
side  or  turned  back,  there  was  little  between 
those  in  the  craft  and  disaster. 

One  tarpon  turned  back  so  quickly,  after  tow- 
ing us  steadily  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so,  that 
I  couldn't  change  the  course  of  the  canoe  till  the 
fish  had  torn  a  dozen  yards  of  line  from  the  cap- 
tain's hands  and  was  that  far  behind  us.  The 
captain  pulled  fiercely  and  the  creature  turned 
again  and  seemed  to  leap  at  me  with  wide-open 
jaws.  Its  weight  fell  on  my  arm  and  the  side  of 
the  canoe  which  would  have  capsized  but  for 
some  quick  balancing  by  my  companion.  The 
rest  of  that  afternoon  the  captain  played  the  fish 
a  bit  less  savagely,  for  which  I  was  not  especially 
sorry. 

I  had  no  dread  of  being  swamped  by  a  tarpon. 
It  had  happened  before  and  would  happen  again, 
probably  that  very  day,  but  I  wanted  it  over 

149 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

and  expecting  it  every  minute  for  hours  got  on 
my  nerves. 

It  was  late  when  the  crisis  came  and  we  were 
near  the  mouth  of  the  river,  for  each  fish  we 
struck  had  carried  us  down  the  stream  with  the 
ebbing  tide.  It  was  a  tarpon  of  the  largest  size 
that  turned  away  from  an  approaching  hammer- 
head shark  and,  swimming  beside  the  canoe,  shot 
high  in  the  air  directly  above  it.  I  held  my 
paddle  without  moving,  waiting,  waiting,  for  the 
canoe  to  sink  under  me  as  it  had  done  before. 
The  captain  rose  to  his  feet  as  the  tarpon  turned 
in  the  air  and  by  a  seeming  act  of  volition  threw 
himself  clear  of  the  craft. 

"Glad  I  didn't  wait  for  the  spill,"  said  the 
Camera-man  as  he  turned  the  plate-holder  in  his 
camera,  "but  I  don't  see  how  he  missed  you. 
What's  become  of  the  fish?  Can't  you  get  him 
to  do  it  again?" 

The  tarpon  had  escaped.  He  had  given  the 
line  a  turn  about  the  canoe  and  of  course  it  had 
brokeui 

The  Irene  was  in  sight  off  the  mouth  of  the 
river  as  I  tied  a  new  hook  on  the  broken  line  and 
told  the  captain  I  would  troll  till  we  reached  the 

150 


THE  TARPON  SWAMPS   US 

boat.  But  a  tarpon  lay  in  wait  for  me  among 
the  oyster  reefs  and,  after  he  was  fast,  started 
back  up  the  river.  He  was  a  hard  fighter  and 
so  erratic  in  his  dashes  as  he  tacked  up  the  stream 
that  every  few  minutes  I  had  to  give  him  line  to 
keep  from  capsizing.  Though  a  brilliant  per- 
former, he  objected  to  having  his  picture  taken 
and  would  only  leap  after  he  had  succeeded  in 
stealing  some  thirty  yards  of  line. 

"Can't  you  get  that  fish  nearer  the  canoe?" 
shouted  the  Camera-man.  "How  can  I  photo- 
graph you  when  you're  a  mile  apart?" 

"I'll  take  him  inside  the  canoe,  if  you  want," 
I  replied,  though  I  had  no  notion  of  doing  it. 

I  hauled  on  the  line  till  the  fish  was  twice  his 
length  from  me  and  was  trying  to  hold  him  there 
when  the  creature  dived  till  the  line  ran  straight 
down.  Then  it  loosened  and  like  an  arrow 
from  a  bow  something  shot  up  from  the  depths, 
dashing  gallons  of  water  in  my  face  as  it  passed. 
I  couldn't  look  up,  but  I  wondered  what  would 
happen.  Just  as  I  concluded  that  this  tarpon, 
like  the  last,  had  cleared  the  canoe  in  his  fall,  the 
craft  gave  a  twist,  a  roll,  and  plunged  me 
shoulder  first,  beneath  the  surface  I 

151 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

It  was  some  seconds  before  I  was  straightened 
out  for  a  swim,  with  my  head  on  top  and  a  chance 
to  look  around.  The  canoe  was  floating  upside 
down,  the  captain  was  swimming  for  the  drifting 
paddles,  and  the  Camera-man  sat  in  the  motor 
boat  looking  as  if  he  were  glad  to  see  me  again. 
The  tarpon  had  disappeared  and  I  recalled  with 
regret  that  I  had  neglected  to  make  the  trolling 
line  fast  to  the  canoe. 

It  was  a  few  yards'  swim  to  an  oyster  reef 
where  the  captain  and  I  re-embarked  and  were 
soon  paddling  for  the  Irene,  It  isn't  worth  while 
to  change  the  few  garments  one  wears  when  fish- 
ing for  tarpon  just  because  one  has  been  over- 
board, so  we  sat  on  the  deck  as  we  were  and  ate 
clams  on  the  half -shell  while  Joe  made  clam  stew 
for  a  second  course  and  gave  us  our  choice  of 
stewed  smoked  turtle  or  clams  for  the  next  one. 
The  Camera-man  would  neither  eat  nor  talk  till 
he  had  packed  away  his  precious  plates. 

"Don't  often  get  a  chance  like  that,"  he  re- 
marked as  he  came  out  of  the  darkroom. 

"Did  you  wait  for  the  smash,  or  do  as  you  did 
before?"  I  inquired. 

"I  waited  till  the  smash  was  sure,  a  little  too 
152 


THE  TARPON  SWAMPS   US 

sure  for  my  nerves.  I've  got  all  I  need  of  that 
sort  of  thing — if  the  plates  turn  out  all  right,  and 
I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't.  I'll  be  satisfied 
to  have  the  rest  of  the  tarpon  played  reasonably 
even  if  I  don't  get  as  many  negatives." 

That  night  we  ran  our  cruising  boat  up  Broad 
River  to  where  the  tarpon  had  been  thickest  and 
anchored  it  in  readiness  for  the  next  day's  cam- 
paign. 


153 


THE    CAPTAIN   WINS   A  WAGER 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  CAPTAIN  WINS  A  WAGER 

THE  Camera-man  was  collecting  his  ma- 
chinery, while  the  captain  and  I  were 
struggling  with  the  problem  of  patching 
up  a  badly  smashed  rod,  when  a  shout  from  on 
deck  brought  us  tumbling  up  from  the  cabin. 
There  stood  Joe  with  the  butt  of  our  broken  hoe- 
handle  rod  in  his  hand  clutching  at  the  buzzing 
reel  from  which  a  brand  new  tarpon  line  was 
streaming  down  the  river  as  if  it  were  fast  to  a 
motor  boat.  Something  caused  the  reel  to  jam 
and  we  were  out  rod,  line,  and  reel  in  an  instant. 
The  rod  wasn't  worth  fixing,  the  tarpon  had  the 
most  of  the  line,  and  the  reel  was  beyond  repair 
by  anyone  but  the  maker.  Joe,  who  was  very 
penitent,  explained  that  while  he  was  waiting 
for  us  he  had  dipped  the  baited  hook  in  the  water 
just  for  fun  and  a  tarpon  grabbed  it. 

157 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

We  were  down  to  our  last  tarpon  rod,  for 
when  the  Camera-man  saw  the  bulge  we  had 
made  in  splicing  the  smashed  rod,  he  declared 
that  it  looked  like  a  stuffed  club  and  was  ugly 
enough  to  bust  his  lens  if  he  tried  it  on  it,  which 
he  wouldn't. 

"Then  we've  got  to  play  the  fish  lightly  and 
you  won't  get  any  more  spectacular  shows  like 
yesterday's,"  said  I. 

"I  am  happy  to  say  I  don't  need  any  more. 
Just  plain,  everyday  tarpon  fishing  is  good 
enough  for  me  now." 

"I'm  glad  o'  that,"  said  the  captain.  "I  like 
to  go  in  swimmin',  but  I  don't  want  it  to  come 
too  sudden." 

In  fighting  a  tarpon  there  is  less  work  in  a 
pitched  battle  which  is  likely  to  end  in  from  fif- 
teen to  thirty  minutes  than  in  a  slow  siege  which 
may  last  from  one  to  three  hours.  I  fought  my 
first  tarpon  of  the  day  hard  enough  to  keep  the 
canoe  within  a  few  lengths  of  him  but  not  near 
enough  to  make  him  wild  with  fright.  He  made 
some  beautiful  leaps  and  carried  the  canoe  to  the 
mouth  of  Broad  River,  piloted  us  skilfully 
through  the  labyrinth  of  oyster  reefs  leading  to 

158 


THE  CAPTAIN  WINS  A  WAGER 

Rodger's  River,  and  carried  us  a  mile  up  the 
latter  before  surrendering.  I  had  tried  to  play 
the  fish  lightly,  but  the  strain  had  been  constant 
for  two  hours,  leaving  me  with  the  toothache  in 
both  arms. 

"You  must  be  tired  paddling,"  said  I  to  the 
captain.  "Just  take  the  rod  and  rest  for  an  hour 
or  so  while  I  paddle  the  canoe." 

The  captain  grinned  as  he  took  the  rod,  for  he 
had  made  scarcely  more  than  a  dozen  strokes 
with  his  paddle  in  an  hour.  The  tarpon  had 
towed  the  canoe  and  an  occasional  slight  turn  of 
the  paddle  kept  us  in  the  creature's  wake. 

Rodger's  River,  where  not  a  tarpon  could  be 
found  the  previous  day,  was  now  full  of  them 
and  the  captain  struck  a  splendid  specimen  be- 
fore he  had  trolled  two  minutes.  After  two  or 
three  jumps,  the  tarpon  made  as  straight  a  course 
up  the  stream  as  the  winding  river  would  permit 
and  traveled  as  steadily  as  if  he  had  been  broken 
to  harness.  Sometimes  he  stopped  to  rest  until 
the  captain  pulled  up  on  him  when  he  gave  a 
playful  jump  and  started  on  up  the  river. 

"  'Member  the  tarpon  we  lost  in  the  cut-off 
yesterday?"  inquired  the  captain. 

169 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

"Sure.    What  of  it?" 

"This  one's  bound  for  the  same  place  and  I'll 
bet  you  a  dollar  we  lose  him  there." 

"But  we're  not  within  two  miles  of  the  cut- 
off." 

"Don't  make  any  difference.  This  fish  is  bound 
for  it." 

For  about  an  hour  the  captain  worked  hard  to 
make  good  his  prediction.  Whenever  the  tar- 
pon turned  off  to  one  side  or  even  looked  back- 
ward he  was  fought  and  worried  till  his  head  was 
again  pointed  up  the  stream.  Then  the  canoe 
dropped  back,  the  line  was  kept  steady  and 
everything  made  pleasant  for  the  fish.  As  we 
approached  the  point  where  the  cut-off  opens  to 
the  east,  while  the  river  bends  to  the  north,  there 
was  excitement  in  both  our  craft  for  the  Camera- 
man and  Joe  had  heard  the  discussion  and  taken 
opposite  sides  of  the  question.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  the  course  of  the  tarpon  to  indicate  which 
turn  he  would  take  and  there  was  nothing  the 
captain  could  do  to  influence  the  decision.  The 
case  was  in  the  hands  of  the  jury  and  the  tail  of 
the  tarpon  would  bring  in  the  verdict. 

On  swam  the  fish,  more  and  more  slowly  until 
160 


AT   LAST  I  HAD  A   STRIKE— AND   A   TARPON   SPED 
DOWN    THE    STREAM. 


THE    CRAFT    GAVE    A    TWIST    AND    A    ROLL    AND 
PLUNGED  ME   BENEATH   THE   SURFACE. 


THE  CAPTAIN  WINS  A  WAGER 

it  seemed  about  to  stop,  but  without  swerving  a 
hair  toward  either  the  cut-off  or  the  bend  in  the 
river.  The  point  was  reached  where  the  tarpon 
must  choose  his  channel  or  cHmb  the  bank.  Then 
the  captain's  excitement  must  have  sent  its  mes- 
sage through  the  hne  to  the  tarpon  which  leaped 
six  feet  in  the  air  and,  twisting  to  the  right  as  it 
fell,  dashed  at  full  speed  into  the  crooked  chan- 
nel of  the  cut-off. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  shouted  the  captain 
triumphantly. 

"Keep  cool  and  play  fair.  You  haven't  won 
yet,  for  we  haven't  lost  the  fish.  Don't  let  the 
line  get  snagged  and  I'll  sneak  the  canoe  around 
every  turn  between  here  and  Broad  River." 

But  the  contract  was  too  big  for  me  and 
though  I  paddled  without  mishap  for  two  hun- 
dred yards  I  had  many  narrow  escapes.  Then 
came  a  series  of  sharp  turns  which  I  couldn't 
make  quickly,  but  were  play  to  the  tarpon,  and 
soon  the  line  was  dragging  over  snags  on  one 
bank  and  through  branches  on  the  opposite  one. 
We  disentangled  the  snarl,  but  there  was  no  tar- 
pon at  the  end  of  it  and  the  captain  had  won  his 
bet! 

161 


QUIET    CRUISING 


z:'''^.z.-^--.S'    .     ■*&'^'^-^X^M^&4:^^m'' 


^^^B 


MORE  THAN  ONCE  IT  SPRANG  AT  US  WITH  WIDE 
OPEN   JAWS. 


WORE     ITSELF     OUT     IN    HALF     AN     HOUR     BY    A 
SERIES    OF   FRANTIC   LEAPS. 


CHAPTER  XII 
QUIET  CRUISING 

WE  paddled  through  the  cut-off  to  Broad 
River,  observing  on  the  way  that 
many  of  the  spider  engineers  had  re- 
built the  suspension  bridges  which  we  had  de- 
stroyed the  day  before.  The  captain  and  I  al- 
ternately fished  and  paddled  until,  when  the  last 
fish  was  turned  loose  in  the  afternoon,  we  had  a 
record  of  five  more  tarpon  to  the  good,  and  the 
Camera-man  had  used  his  last  plate. 

At  supper  the  Camera-man  said:  "I  don't 
want  to  get  shy  of  plates  and  they  are  going  fast. 
I  must  save  a  lot  for  the  tarpon  fly-fishing." 

"Then,  Captain,  it's  up  to  you  to  get  us  to 
the  head  of  Harney  River,  P.  D.  Q."  said  I. 

"I  can  take  you  through  to  Tussock  Bay  to- 
night.   Beyond  that  I  want  daylight  in  places." 
I  knew  every  foot  of  the  course,  every  channel 
165 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

and  bar,  key  and  oyster  reef,  otter  slide  and  alli- 
gator bed.  I  had  a  personal  acquaintance  with 
the  feathered  inhabitants  and  could  have  called 
many  of  the  animals  by  their  first  names,  but 
lacking  the  sailor  instinct  I  should  have  bumped 
every  point  of  land  between  the  mouth  of  Broad 
River  and  Tussock  Key  where  we  anchored,  if  I 
had  tried  to  make  the  run  in  the  dark.  We  left 
Tussock  at  daylight  the  next  morning  with  sails 
furled  and  our  auxiliary  power  in  play.  Our 
course  lay  through  narrow  channels,  over  shallow 
watercourses  choked  by  eel  and  manatee  grass, 
past  open  meadows  and  blind  leads  that  beckoned 
us  into  little  bayous  that  led  nowhere.  A  small, 
unpromising  stream  opened  into  a  river  three 
hundred  feet  wide  which  narrowed  for  two  miles 
till  its  banks  closed  in  on  us. 

At  the  last  moment  an  opening  in  the  bushes 
on  our  right  disclosed  a  brook  less  than  twenty 
yards  wide  through  which  Everglade  water  came 
tumbling  in  a  torrent.  Our  motor  could  have 
overcome  its  swiftness  but  the  sudden  turns  were 
too  much  for  the  rudder  and  we  had  to  stand  in 
the  bow  with  poles  to  help  the  Irene  around  the 
corners  and  keep  it  off  the  banks.    It  was  like 

166 


QUIET  CRUISING 

cruising  through  a  flooded  forest  and  the 
branches  of  trees  swept  everything  movable  from 
deck  and  cabin,  but  a  short  half-mile  brought  us 
to  a  river  known  then  only  to  the  refugees  of  the 
swamps  and  a  few,  a  very  few,  hunters  and 
trappers.  It  was  a  beautiful  stream,  from  three 
to  four  hundred  feet  wide,  but  the  path  of  the 
navigable  channel  was  narrow  and  tortuous, 
winding  its  way  through  masses  of  manatee 
grass  and  fields  of  lily  pads.  Sometimes  it  so 
nearly  closed  that  the  boat's  propeller  gathered 
long  streamers  of  grass  and  twisted  them  about 
the  shaft  until  the  motor  stopped  and  all  hands, 
by  turns,  went  overboard  to  cut  the  fibers  away. 
Through  six  hours  of  work  and  slow  progress 
there  was  no  minute  without  a  new  pleasure. 
Beside  us,  as  we  entered  the  river,  was  a  deep 
pool  which  must  have  been  a  Tarpon  Orphan 
Asylum  from  the  number  of  baby  tarpon  it  con- 
tained. By  twos  and  threes  at  a  time  they  leaped 
above  the  surface,  turning  and  twisting  in  some 
joyous  sport  of  their  own.  Upthrust  through 
every  square  yard  of  the  floating  grass  was  the 
little  round  head  with  bright  eyes  that  told  of  an 
edible  turtle  beneath  it.    We  tried  to  collect  one 

167 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

for  supper  with  a  shotgun,  but  they  must  have 
dodged  at  the  flash  or  our  aim  was  amazingly 
bad,  for  we  got  none.  I  reminded  Joe  that  our 
last  hunter-boy  used  to  dive  overboard  when  he 
saw  a  turtle  and  come  back  with  the  reptile  un- 
der his  arm,  but  Joe  only  asked  me  to  show  him 
how  the  deed  was  done.  Finally  the  captain  took 
the  Camera-man  out  in  the  canoe,  while  Joe  and 
I  were  cutting  grass  from  the  shaft,  and  when 
they  returned  two  harpooned  turtle  accompanied 
them. 

At  almost  every  turn  we  saw  an  alligator  float- 
ing on  the  surface  of  the  water  and  watched  him 
sink  slowly  until  only  his  eyes  could  be  seen  for 
the  moment  before  they  dropped  out  of  sight. 
We  passed  an  otter  slide  just  as  its  playful 
owner  coasted  down  the  bank  into  the  river,  and 
once  a  mother  coon  from  the  shore  pointed  us 
out  to  her  offspring  and  shook  her  wise  old  head 
as  she  maligned  us.  Outlaws  and  Indians  knew 
the  river  too  well,  and  among  the  feathered 
dwellers  in  the  water  and  forest  about  it  not  a 
snowy  heron  could  be  seen.  The  last  mother 
bird  had  been  sacrificed  to  fashion  and  the  last 
infant  starved  in  its  nest. 

168 


QUIET  CRUISING 

Often  a  kingfisher  started  up  the  river  before 
us,  with  the  same  joyous  screech  I  had  heard 
from  Hudson  Bay  to  Cape  Sable,  while  the 
king-bird  I  knew  in  the  North  was  the  bee- 
martin  of  the  Southern  river  and  the  same  trucu- 
lent assailant  of  enemies  much  bigger  than  itself. 
The  Kentucky  cardinal  was  only  a  red-bird  in 
Florida,  but  it  was  as  friendly  and  songful  as 
under  its  olden  name.  Herons,  big,  little,  and 
Louisianas,  dragged  their  long  legs  in  the  air  as 
they  flew  from  us.  Flocks  of  white,  curved-bill 
ibis  flew  swiftly  over  our  heads,  while  a  fork- 
tailed  hawk,  most  graceful  of  created  things, 
floated  in  curves  about  the  topmost  branches  of 
the  trees,  gathering  its  insect  prey  without  alight- 
ing. 

Little  flocks  of  ducks  and  coots  rose  skittering 
from  the  water  as  they  fled  before  us.  Bunches 
of  water  turkeys  sat  on  branches  that  overhung 
the  water  and  as  we  approached  dropped  beneath 
its  surface  as  clumsily  as  a  pelican  alights  upon 
it.  Then  followed  the  quick,  darting  motions  of 
the  slim  head  and  neck  that  have  given  this  bird 
the  descriptive  names  of  Darter  and  Snake  Bird. 
Man-o'-war  hawks  floated  a  thousand  or  two  feet 

169 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

above  us  with  wings  as  motionless  as  those  of  a 
monoplane,  and  without  propellers  in  their  tails. 

Fragrant  myrtle  and  sweet  bay  flourished  on 
the  banks,  while  from  the  shallow  water  sprang 
big,  twisted  trunks  of  trees  whose  little  branches 
bore  fat  custard  apples,  luscious  to  the  taste  but 
for  its  turpentine  flavor.  Near  its  head  the  river 
was  fed  by  grassy-bordered,  lily-choked  channels 
of  pure  water.  The  river  ended  three  miles  from 
the  crooked  creek  by  which  we  entered  it  and  the 
Irene  followed  a  narrow  stream  scarcely  more 
than  her  width,  while  branches  brushed  her  sides 
until  her  nose  ran  into  the  bank  and  her  bow  was 
thrust  over  the  border  of  the  Everglades. 

We  saw  before  us  a  great  flooded  meadow, 
through  the  grass  of  which  we  waded  in  water 
that  was  half -knee  deep.  There  were  acres  of 
white  pond  lilies  with  all  the  beauty,  but  lacking 
the  fragrance  of  their  sisters  of  the  north. 
It  was  dotted  with  tiny  keys  bearing  tall  palms, 
fragrant  and  fruit  bearing  trees,  and  winding 
throughout  its  expanse  were  clear  streams  of 
limpid  water  flowing  over  the  coral  foundation 
of  the  Everglades. 


170 


ON  THE  BORDER  OF  THE  GLADES 


WHILE    THE    CAPTAIN    FISHED,     MY    WORK    CON- 
SISTED IN  KEEPING  THE  CANOE  HEAD 
ON  TO   THE   FISH. 


AT    TIMES    THE    FISH    REFUSED    TO    JUMP    WHEN 
CALLED  ON, 


CHAPTER  XIII 
ON  THE  BORDER  OF  THE  GLADES 

PONCE  DE  LEON  failed  to  find  the 
Fountain  of  Youth,  but  if  he  had  ex- 
plored Harney  River  where  it  meets  the 
Everglades  he  would  have  discovered  the  cave  of 
Somnus.  Its  Lethean  waters  give  oblivion  and 
for  two  days  after  drinking  of  them  we  forgot 
our  purpose  in  coming  to  the  river.  Tarpon 
were  not  spoken  of  and  rods  were  not  rigged. 
The  Camera-man  and  I  paddled  our  light  canoe 
as  if  in  a  dream  over  sunny  waters,  through 
flowering  meadows,  and  around  tiny  keys  with 
which  the  Glades  are  dotted. 

We  moved  so  silently  that  birds  sat  quietly  on 
their  floating  nests  as  we  passed  within  a  canoe 
length  of  them,  while  long-legged  herons  stepped 
aside  with  dignity,  scorning  to  take  refuge  in 
flight.    Deer,  crossing  between  keys,  turned  won- 

173 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

dering  eyes  upon  us  and  seeing  that  we  had  for- 
gotten our  guns  pursued  their  unhurried  way. 
Alligators  fled  from  their  mounds  in  the  flooded 
meadows  and  we  pushed  hard  on  the  paddles  till 
we  touched  the  tail  of  the  frightened,  fleeing 
saurian  with  the  bow  of  the  canoe. 

We  paddled  so  far  and  so  thoughtlessly, 
changing  our  course  so  frequently  as  we  chased 
the  creatures  of  the  wild,  or  followed  wandering 
leads  of  clear  water,  watching  fish  and  turtles  in 
its  depths,  that  when  we  thought  to  return  there 
was  nothing  to  point  out  the  path.  We  had 
neither  watch  nor  compass  and  as  the  sun  was 
near  the  zenith  we  had  the  whole  horizon  to 
choose  from.  The  afternoon  was  well  advanced 
when  the  trees  on  the  western  border  of  the  Ever- 
glades showed  up  and  the  landscape  was  un- 
familiar when  we  reached  it.  We  fancied  we 
were  too  far  south,  which  was  a  mistake,  and 
paddled  to  the  north  for  an  hour  before  changing 
our  minds. 

It  is  not  always  easy  to  follow  the  borders  of 
the  Everglades  by  day,  and  darkness  so  confused 
us  that  we  would  have  spent  the  night  in  the 
canoe  had  we  not  been  guided,  first  by  the  report 

174 


THE  BORDER  OF  THE  GLADES 

of  a  rifle  and  then  by  the  rays  from  a  lantern 
shining  through  the  trees  where  the  Irene  lay  at 
anchor. 

On  our  second  day  at  the  head  of  the  river  we 
followed  labyrinthic  streams  that  turned  and 
twisted  through  narrow  channels,  darkened  by 
overhanging  branches  or  broadened  into  open 
lagoons,  carpeted  and  choked  by  great  lily  pads. 
Coming  to  a  heavy  growth  of  this  kind,  through 
which  we  could  force  the  canoe  only  a  few  inches 
at  a  stroke,  I  thought  to  wade  and  drag  the 
canoe.  Thrusting  my  paddle  downward  to  ex- 
plore the  bottom,  I  could  find  none,  though  to 
blade  and  handle  I  added  the  full  length  of  my 
arm.  But  a  commotion  was  created  beneath  the 
canoe  and  the  big  leaves  about  us  dipped  under 
the  surface,  while  rising  bubbles  and  water  that 
boiled  around  our  craft  told  of  a  monster  disport- 
ing among  the  roots  of  the  lilies.  Soon  the  line 
of  disturbance  led  from  us  in  a  broad  pathway  of 
swirling  leaves  and  agitated  water  that  stretched 
out  until  a  turn  in  the  lagoon  shut  it  from  our 
sight. 

We  thought  to  revisit  a  long-abandoned  In- 
dian camp,  with  the  site  of  which  we  were  fam- 

175 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

iliar.  We  passed  the  point  from  which  we 
should  have  seen  the  lime  and  lemon  trees  that 
surrounded  the  old  camp,  but  everything  familiar 
had  disappeared.  Before  us  was  a  jungle  sur- 
rounded by  a  tall  canebrake  without  an  opening 
big  enough  to  give  passage  to  a  wildcat. 

"Somebody  has  stolen  our  camp!"  said  I  to 
the  Camera-man.  "It  used  to  be  here,  but  it's 
gone." 

"It  used  to  be  here  and  it  is  here  now,"  was 
the  reply.  "Things  grow  fast  in  this  country 
and  that  jungle  has  sprung  up  since  we  camped 
among  the  lime  trees  three  years  ago.  Let's 
tackle  the  canebrake  and  see  what  is  behind  it 
now." 

We  hacked  at  the  canes  and  jammed  them 
aside,  making  a  path  through  which  we  dragged 
the  canoe  until  we  reached  a  bank  that  we  knew. 
A  few  more  yards  through  a  tangle  of  tall  weeds 
over  land  that  was  high  and  dry  brought  us  to 
the  little  group  of  citrus  trees  beside  which  were 
the  charred  sticks  radiating  from  the  point  where 
in  Indian  fashion,  three  years  before,  we  had 
built  our  camp-fire.  From  these  sticks  we  built 
a  new  fire  and  over  its  coals  broiled  an  Indian 

176 


THE  BORDER  OF  THE  GLADES 

hen,  or  limpkin,  which  I  had  shot  with  this  lunch 
in  view. 

Limes  and  lemons  filled  the  trees  and  covered 
the  ground  in  bushels.  Of  the  former  we  packed 
a  goodly  store  in  the  canoe.  In  transporting 
these  I  utilized  the  hint  a  Florida  girl  had  given 
me  by  carrying  half  a  bushel  of  cocoa-plums  in 
her  shirt  waist. 

We  dreamed  through  the  afternoon,  paddle  in 
hand,  finding  objects  of  interest  at  every  stroke. 
Tiny  tree  frogs,  protectively  colored,  chirped 
within  reach  of  my  paddle  and  it  was  minutes 
before  I  could  see  them,  while  graceful  forked- 
tailed  kites,  swooping  down  from  their  lofty 
height,  gathered  the  little  creatures  in,  without 
pausing  in  their  flight.  The  great  rookeries  of 
the  river  had  been  destroyed,  but  we  found 
scattered  nests  of  herons,  curlews,  water  turkeys, 
and  other  birds,  and  seldom  did  a  mother-bird 
flee  from  our  cautious  approach.  Just  before  us 
a  crow  darted  down  upon  an  unguarded  nest  and 
carried  away  a  little  egg,  impaled  upon  its  beak. 
But  the  avenger  was  on  the  trail  of  the  nest  rob- 
ber and  a  swift-flying  bee  bird,  the  kingbird  of 
the  north,  attacked  it  in  the  air.    The  crow  fled 

177 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

to  the  woods  and  we  missed  the  finish  of  the 
fight,  but  we  felt  fairly  assured  that  the  plucky 
little  bee  bird  got  the  marauder's  scalp. 

With  the  passing  of  the  egret,  the  bird  hunters, 
white  and  Indian,  had  lost  interest  in  the  river, 
while  the  ordinary  tourist  had  never  seen  its 
upper  waters.  A  few  years'  rest  from  pursuit 
had  half  tamed  the  wild  creatures  about  us.  The 
birds  were  almost  friendly,  the  alligators  less 
shy,  and  even  a  wise  old  otter,  forgetful  of  the 
cash  value  of  his  fur,  gazed  at  us  from  the  bank 
unapprehensively. 

This  dolce  far  niente  life  could  not  last  and 
when,  on  our  third  morning  at  the  head  of  the 
river,  the  captain  asked  if  we  were  through  tar- 
pon fishing,  I  told  him  to  get  out  the  little  motor 
boat  while  I  put  my  eight  ounce  fly-rod  together. 
There  were  tarpon  in  the  streams  that  flowed 
near  us  in  the  Everglades,  but  the  water  was  so 
clear  that  the  fish  saw  the  game  and  refused  to 
rise  to  our  lure.  We  tried  the  shallow  little 
streams  and  the  deeper  pools  about  us,  but 
though  the  creatures  we  sought  were  plentiful 
we  couldn't  scare  up  a  bite. 

"Why  not  go  down  to  the  crooked  creek?" 
178 


THE  BORDER  OF  THE  GLADES 

asked  the  captain.  "The  pool  there  is  chock-full 
of  'em." 

"I  want  some  babies  for  real  fly-rod  work  and 
they  are  a  bit  too  big  for  that,  but  we*ll  try 
them." 

We  went  down  the  river  to  the  pool  which  was 
teeming  with  tarpon  and  I  wa^  sure  my  first  cast 
would  end  in  a  strike.  But  I  cast  fly  and  bait, 
again  and  again,  without  winning  the  attention 
of  a  fish.  I  dragged  the  line  across  the  pool  as 
they  played  until  they  knocked  it  aside  with 
their  heads.  We  wasted  an  hour  before  giving 
up,  and  then  paddled  down  a  shallow  branch  of 
the  river  that  led  away  from  the  crooked  creek. 
At  last  I  had  a  strike,  and  a  tarpon  about  four 
feet  long,  after  two  wild  leaps,  sped  down  the 
stream  while  my  reel  buzzed  in  its  highest  key 
and  the  line  ran  low  on  the  reel. 

The  captain  paddled  his  best  in  spite  of  the 
way  I  yelled  at  him  and  the  considerate  fish 
turned  back  and  zigzagged,  giving  me  a  chance 
to  gather  in  line.  As  we  kept  on  down  the 
stream  it  grew  shallower  and  narrower,  my  reel 
was  nearly  full,  and  I  felt  sure  of  the  game  when 
the  tarpon  dashed  into  an  overgrown  creek  where 

179 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

I  held  my  head  down  to  avoid  the  bushes  and 
kept  the  tip  of  my  rod  straight  ahead  near  the 
surface  of  the  water. 

"That  tarpon's  a  goner,"  said  the  captain. 
"He'll  smash  your  rod  when  he  turns." 

But  the  fish  didn't  turn  and  within  a  hundred 
yards  the  little  gully  opened  into  a  river  twice  as 
broad  as  the  one  we  had  left.  We  followed  our 
quarry  up  the  stream,  which  spread  over  shallow 
banks  and  wandered  among  the  trees,  until  the 
tarpon  turned  back.  Again  it  entered  the  little 
creek,  turning  so  sharply  that  the  captain  had 
trouble  in  following  it  quickly  enough  to  keep 
the  line  out  of  the  bushes.  With  the  rod  held 
horizontally  it  was  impossible  to  keep  a  steady 
strain  on  the  line,  and  a  series  of  little  jerks  so 
irritated  the  tarpon  that  twice  it  leaped  high 
among  the  overhanging  branches.  Once  would 
probably  have  been  enough,  but  twice  made  the 
result  certain  and  the  tarpon  struck  the  water  a 
free  fish.  Though  the  round  was  against  us  its 
termination  was  so  pretty  that  I  called  to  the 
Camera-man : 

"Wasn't  that  jump  a  beaut?  Hope  you  got 
it." 

180 


THE  BOBBER  OF  THE  GLADES 

"  *Got  it !'  How  could  I  get  anything  through 
two  of  you?  You  ought  to  have  gone  overboard 
or  climbed  a  tree,  anything  to  get  out  of  the  way. 
You  kept  me  from  getting  a  picture  of  a  tarpon 
climbing  a  tree.  I'll  never  get  such  a  chance 
again." 

Soon  after  re-entering  the  river  I  saw  a  small 
fish  jump  near  the  mouth  of  a  creek  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  stream.  I  soon  found  that  it 
was  a  regular  nursery  of  hungry  tarpon.  An  in- 
fant rose  to  every  cast  and  although  for  a  time 
my  luck  was  bad,  I  finally  hooked  the  ideal  fish 
for  a  fly-rod.  A  perfect  tarpon,  about  eighteen 
inches  long  and  weighing  less  than  two  pounds, 
made  my  reel  buzz  as  it  darted  hither  and  yon, 
leaping  half  a  dozen  feet  in  the  air  several  times 
in  a  minute.  It  was  the  first  fish  of  the  kind  I 
had  fought  in  the  fashion  I  liked  best,  with  only 
the  spring  of  the  rod  and  wrist  action.  Tiny  as 
the  tarpon  was,  it  carried  out  a  hundred  feet  of 
line  and  I  almost  regretted  my  resolve  not  to 
move  or  be  moved  from  my  station  at  the  mouth 
of  the  creek.  When  at  the  end  of  a  long  struggle 
I  gave  the  little  creature  the  freedom  it  had  so 
well  earned,  my  wrists  were  as  tired  as  after  the 

181 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

capture  of  one  of  his  kind  of  fifty  times  his  avoir- 
dupois. 

The  next  tarpon  that  struck  gave  no  choice 
about  the  manner  of  playing  him,  for  after  a 
few  preliminary  leaps  and  an  angry  shake  of  his 
head  he  started  up  the  creek  like  a  steamboat  and 
the  captain  had  to  get  busy  to  keep  within  the 
limits  of  my  line.  It  was  a  bigger  creek  than  the 
one  where  we  lost  our  first  fish  and  I  usually 
had  room  for  my  rod,  but  sometimes  an  over- 
hanging branch  had  to  be  dodged  and  there  were 
short  turns  in  the  stream  that  troubled  me.  Once 
the  fish  sulked  under  the  bank  for  a  minute  and 
then  came  straight  for  the  canoe,  but  the  splash 
of  a  paddle  turned  the  creature  back  on  its  course 
after  a  protesting  leap  that  nearly  carried  it  over 
an  out-thrusting  branch.  It  was  our  second  nar- 
row escape,  for  if  the  tarpon  had  passed  us  it 
would  soon  have  been  free,  since  we  hadn't  room 
in  that  part  of  the  creek  to  turn  our  canoe. 

To  manage  the  canoe  from  the  bow  and  the 
tarpon  from  the  stern,  in  that  crooked  little 
creek,  would  have  invited  trouble. 

It  was  a  playful  tarpon  that  led  us  and  we  had 
oodles  of  fun  in  the  half  mile  course  of  the  creek, 

182 


THE  BORDER  OF  THE  GLADES 

but  the  fly  in  the  ointment  was  the  language  of 
the  Camera-man  who  followed  in  the  little  motor 
boat.  He  couldn't  pass  the  canoe  and  he  couldn't 
photograph  through  us ;  he  could  see  the  fun,  but 
he  couldn't  picture  it.  The  creek  opened  at  last 
into  a  little  bay  and  I  called  back  to  the  Camera- 
man: 

"Your  time  has  come.  There's  plenty  of 
room  ahead." 

But  it  was  the  tarpon's  time  that  had  come,  for 
the  fish  swam  under  some  roots  that  projected 
from  the  bank  of  the  creek  where  it  joined  the 
bay  and  my  goose  was  cooked.  I  passed  my  rod 
to  the  captain  and,  taking  the  Kne  in  hand,  thrust 
my  arm  shoulder  deep  beneath  the  surface  of  the 
water  in  an  effort  to  free  the  line.  I  might  have 
succeeded  but  for  the  treachery  of  the  little  canoe 
which  rolled  me  out  and  buried  me  well  under 
the  surface  of  the  water.  It  was  a  source  of 
gratification  to  me  that  the  captain  went  over- 
board at  the  same  time  and  I  met  his  recrimina- 
tions as  we  poured  the  water  out  of  the  canoe 
by  upbraiding  him  for  capsizing  the  craft. 

The  following  day  we  exploited  our  tarpon 
creek  during  all  the  hours  when  the  camera  could 

183 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

work  and  recorded  the  capture  of  nearly  a  score 
of  tarpon  on  an  eight-ounce  rod.  The  fish  varied 
in  weight  from  two  to  twenty  pounds  each  and  it 
was  one  of  those  rare  days  when  they  bit  at  any- 
thing. It  might  well  have  happened  that  twenty- 
four  hours  later  not  a  rise  could  have  been  coaxed 
out  of  one  of  them.  But  there  were  few  minutes 
of  that  day  when  my  little  rod  was  not  in  action 
with  a  tarpon  at  the  end  of  it. 

Several  tarpon  escaped  by  leaping  among  the 
branches  of  overhanging  trees  and  tangling  the 
line  till  it  broke.  Twice  tarpon  jumped  over  the 
canoe  and  one  little  one  fell  squarely  within  it. 
The  Camera-man's  luck  was  hard.  He  could 
never  choose  his  position  to  advantage  and  the 
shots  he  got  were  in  shadows  so  deep  that  it  was 
cruelty  to  lenses  to  try  them.  At  the  close  of  the 
fishing  he  announced  that  another  day  of  photo- 
graphing jumping  tarpon  in  the  dark  would 
ruin  his  disposition  for  keeps,  so  we  brought  the 
Irene  down  to  the  crooked  creek  ready  for  an 
early  start  the  next  morning. 


184 


A  ZIGZAG   TRIP   AND   A  ZOO 


CHAPTER  XIV 
-A  ZIGZAG  TRIP  AND  A  ZOO 

D'YE  want  to  take  some  risk,  runnin'  the 
creek,  this  morning?" 

"Guess  we've  got  to,  haven't  we.  Cap- 
tain?" I  replied. 

"Nope,  we  can  get  out  lines  and  snub  her  all 
the  way  down.  It'll  pretty  near  use  up  the  day, 
though." 

"The  other  way  is  to  let  her  go  flying,  engine 
and  current,  both  full  speed?" 
"Sure!" 

"Can  you  make  the  turns?" 
"Some  of  'em,  not  all.  Every  man  must  take 
a  pole  and  fend  off  lively.  The  bushes  will 
scratch  us  up  a  lot  and  we'll  likely  carry  away 
something.  It  will  be  fun,  though,  and  I'd  like 
to  try  it  if  you  don't  mind." 

As  I  didn't  mind,  we  cleared  the  deck  of  every- 
187 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

thing  movable,  even  carrying  the  Httle  canoe  into 
the  cabin,  and  hauled  the  bow  of  the  baby  motor 
boat  under  the  counter  of  the  Irene.  The 
Camera-man  started  the  motor  and  then  taking  a 
pole  went  forward,  for  the  captain  told  him  there 
would  be  no  hurry  about  stopping  the  engine 
since  the  order  wouldn't  be  given  till  the  peril 
was  past  and  we  were  hard  and  fast  on  a  bank. 
For  a  hundred  yards  the  course  was  straight, 
then  came  a  sharp  turn  to  the  left,  followed  by 
one  yet  sharper  to  the  right. 

I  stood  beside  the  captain  as  our  speed  in- 
creased with  every  turn  of  the  wheel,  and  as  we 
neared  the  first  bend  in  the  stream  I  was  glad 
that  his  was  the  guiding  hand.  He  stood  like  a 
graven  image  while  the  bushes  on  the  right  bank 
swept  the  side  of  the  cabin,  until  at  the  first  turn 
I  thought  the  bowsprit  would  be  buried  in  the 
woods.  But  the  wheel  rolled  to  port,  and  rudder 
and  current  swept  us  clear  of  the  bank.  While 
the  boat  was  still  swinging,  the  wheel  flew  to 
starboard  and  I  held  my  breath  as  the  Irene 
slowly  swung  to  the  right  away  from  the  bank 
toward  which  she  was  surging.  One  instant  the 
motor  boat  in  tow  swung  against  the  right  bank 

188 


ROLLED  ME  WELL  OUT  AND  BURIED  MI]  RI]NEATII 
THE    SURFACE    OP    THE    WATER. 


A  ZIGZAG  TRIP  AND  A  ZOO 

of  the  creek  and  a  second  later  the  bowsprit 
swept  the  bushes  on  the  left  bank. 

"Rather  close  call,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  no,  that  was  easy,  but  there's  a  goose  neck 
turn  below  where  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  trouble." 

It  was  all  trouble,  it  seemed  to  me,  for  the 
captain  kept  the  wheel  spinning  back  and  forth 
like  a  teetotum,  while  the  Camera-man  and  Joe 
jabbed  their  poles  into  the  banks  and  the 
branches  of  trees  swept  deck  and  cabin.  Once 
there  was  a  crack  as  the  bowsprit  mowed  down 
some  bushes,  but  it  was  only  a  dry  branch  that 
broke.  A  projecting  root  caught  the  bow  of 
the  Green  Pea,  but  the  snag  was  rotten  and 
broke.  At  the  goose  neck  turn  we  ran  into  the 
bank,  but  it  was  a  glancing  blow  and  quick  work 
with  the  poles  freed  the  bow  of  the  boat  before 
the  current  could  swing  its  stern  across  the  creek. 

A  moment  later  we  entered  the  broader  stream 
and  as  we  turned  down  the  river  I  looked  through 
the  companion  way  at  the  clock  and  thought  it 
had  stopped.  The  passage  of  the  creek  had  con- 
tained incidents  enough  to  make  a  full  day. 
When  I  recalled  the  panorama  of  the  stream  as 
its  banks  swept  past,  its  perils  and  pleasures,  and 

189 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

its  excitements  of  apprehension  and  relief,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  hours  must  have  passed  since 
the  engine  was  started  and  the  bow  of  the  Irene 
pointed  down  the  crooked  creek.  But  the 
emotionless  clock  with  its  unhurried  beat  de- 
clared that  the  trip  had  been  made  in  less  than 
four  minutes. 

Tarpon  were  jumping  in  the  river  and  we 
went  out  in  the  canoe  to  make  their  acquaintance, 
but  found  them  too  coy  for  our  purpose.  I  cast 
and  trolled  for  an  hour  before  getting  a  strike 
and  then  the  quarry  was  a  ravaille.  The  fish 
was  game  and  leaped  out  of  the  water  in  a  way 
that  would  have  been  highly  creditable  to  a 
salmon,  though  it  would  have  disgraced  a  de- 
crepit tarpon.  When  I  finally  struck  a  tarpon  it 
was  too  heavy  to  be  played  advantageously  with 
a  fly-rod  and  the  Camera-man  complained  that 
he  couldn't  get  the  canoe  and  the  tarpon  on  the 
same  plate  if  we  kept  them  a  mile  apart.  For 
the  rest  of  the  day  we  used  the  heavy  rod,  but 
the  few  fish  we  struck  fled  to  narrow  channels 
and  gave  acrobatic  performances  where  the  motor 
boat  could  not  be  maneuvered. 

We  arranged  to  anchor  for  the  night  beside 
190 


A  ZIGZAG  TRIP  AND  A  ZOO 

the  picturesque  Tussock  Key,  but  as  we  ap- 
proached it  the  presence  of  a  camp-fire  and  the 
absence  of  campers  suggested  that  it  was  occu- 
pied by  outlaws  and  that  the  latch  string  had  been 
pulled  in  at  sight  of  us. 

"It's  a  good  night  for  a  run  down  the  coast," 
suggested  the  captain. 

"Then  we'll  anchor  off  Flamingo  before  we 
sleep." 

WJien  our  mud  hook  went  down  in  the  night 
we  were  lying  off  the  southernmost  point  of  the 
mainland  of  Florida,  in  the  shallow  water  of 
Barnes's  Sound.  On  one  side  of  us  was  the  key 
where  my  friend  Guy  Bradley,  game  warden, 
was  shot  down  and  his  body  left  to  drift  in  sight 
of  his  home.  South  of  us  lay  Man-o'-war  Bush, 
still  frequented  by  flocks  of  the  frigate  pelican, 
or  man-o'-war  hawk.  The  country  about  us  was 
once  the  home  of  a  world  of  birds,  but  only  frag- 
ments of  the  great  flocks  remained. 

On  a  bank  to  the  east  of  us  I  had  once  seen  a 
hundred  flamingoes  standing  in  soldierly  line, 
while  red  bands  stretched  across  the  sky  marked 
the  flight  of  other  flocks  of  the  same  beautiful 
creatures.    Near  us  was  a  creek  leading  through 

191 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

devious,  difficult  channels  to  a  little  lake  hidden 
among  the  jungle-like  trees  of  a  mangrove 
swamp  where  I  had  seen  a  key  with  its  trees 
hidden  by  the  white  plumage  of  the  thousands  of 
snowy  heron  that  were  nesting  upon  it.  I 
learned  the  next  year  that  my  boatman  had  re- 
turned to  the  rookery  and  from  the  birds  that 
he  killed  gathered  plumes  which  he  sold  for 
$1,100. 

A  narrow  strip  of  coast,  a  few  miles  to  the  east, 
contained  the  little  remnant,  if  any  there  were,  of 
the  Florida  crocodile,  while  a  single  family  of 
manatees  of  my  acquaintance  lived,  unless  re- 
cently killed,  in  nearby  waters.  But  neither  na- 
tives nor  tourists  could  kill  off  the  fish  and  the 
waters  were  alive  with  them,  oodles  of  them. 
From  Joe  Kemp's  Key,  where  we  were  anchored, 
channels  wound  about  the  keys  and  threaded  the 
shallow  banks  where  multitudes  of  mullet  and 
lesser  fish  feasted  and  were  feasted  upon.  For  as 
the  tide  rose  the  channels  were  filled  with  sharks 
and  sawfish,  dolphins,  tarpon,  and  other  pred- 
atory creatures  until  the  small  fish  that  slipped 
into  deep  waters  was  lost. 

As  the  flat-bodied  sawfish  drew  the  least  water 
192 


IT     LOOKED     AND     PULLED     LIKE     THE     BIGGEST 
KIND    OP   A    FISH. 


ALWAYS     WE    FEARED     THE     TARPON'S     GETTING 
TOO    FAR    AWAY. 


A  ZIGZAG  TRIP  AND  A  ZOO 

for  a  craft  of  its  tonnage,  it  was  the  first  to  slip 
over  the  bank  and  glide  slowly,  with  its  three  big 
fins  in  line  above  the  surface,  among  the  schools 
of  little  fish.  Sometimes,  with  saw  waving  from 
side  to  side,  it  darted  into  a  group  which  scat- 
tered quickly,  yet  left  some  of  its  members  with 
bodies  slashed  half  in  two. 

Tarpon  spread  over  the  flats  till  a  score  of  their 
bayonet  fins  could  be  seen  at  once  as  they  coursed 
their  prey.  Dolphins  often  fished  in  families  of 
three  and  the  Camera-man  followed  them  by  the 
hour  with  leveled  weapon,  hoping  to  be  within 
range  at  the  critical  instant  when  Papa  Dolphin 
sent  a  shower  of  mullet  into  the  air  that  Baby 
Dolphin  might  catch  one  as  it  fell. 

The  true  weapon  for  the  shoal  water  of 
Barnes's  Sound  is  the  harpoon  for  which  there 
was  food  on  every  side  of  us,  but  the  bite  of  a 
shark,  leap  of  a  dolphin,  or  stroke  of  a  sawfish 
might  at  any  moment  destroy  the  canoe  which 
was  so  essential  a  part  of  our  outfit.  We  de- 
voted a  day  to  pure  pleasure  and,  leaving 
camera,  rod,  and  harpoon  on  the  Irene,  paddled 
through  the  channels  and  over  the  flats  that 
spread  out  before  us.    We  followed  a  family  of 

193 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

dolphins  a  mile  up  a  channel  that  petered  out 
and  sent  them  skittering  over  shallow  banks  in 
water  that  only  half  floated  them  on  their  way 
to  another  channel. 

The  day  was  calm,  the  often  muddy  waters 
crystal  clear  and  more  than  once  as  we  rested 
quietly  on  its  surface  the  huge  form  of  a  fif- 
teen-foot sawfish  glided  slowly  beneath  us, 
waving  its  broad,  many-toothed  weapon,  one 
stroke  of  which  would  have  destroyed  our  craft 
and  qualified  us  for  a  hospital  at  least.  Sharks 
which  could  have  eaten  us  alive  fled  at  the  ap- 
proach of  the  canoe,  while  the  tarpon  we  met 
seemed  to  understand  that  our  evil  designs 
against  them  had  been  suspended.  Our  wander- 
ings extended  to  Man-o'-War  Bush  and  other 
keys  where  a  few  birds,  young  and  old,  greeted 
or  scolded  us,  while  on  one  we  found  a  small 
colony  of  the  fast-disappearing  roseate  spoonbill. 
We  explored  Cuthbert  Creek,  disturbing  the  al- 
ligators that  slept  on  its  banks  and  finding  a  nest 
of  the  smallest  tarpon  I  had  ever  seen.  One  that 
jumped  into  the  canoe  measured  a  trifle  over 
eighteen  inches  and  must  have  weighed  less  than 
two  pounds. 

194 


A  ZIGZAG  TRIP  AND  A  ZOO 

"Why  not  go  over  to  Bear  Lake  if  you  want 
little  tarpon?"  asked  the  captain  that  evening 
when  we  told  him  of  our  capture.  "It's  only 
three  or  four  miles  across  the  prairie  and  it  sure 
is  the  place  where  young  tarpon  are  made." 

"I  know  those  tarpon,"  I  replied,  "and  I  don't 
believe  you  could  get  a  rise  out  of  them  in  a  thou- 
sand years,  but  we'll  give  them  another  chance." 

It  was  a  hot,  hard  tramp  to  the  lake  and  we 
arrived  there,  the  Camera-man,  the  captain,  and 
I,  wild  with  thirst  but  without  a  drop  to  drink. 
The  water  of  the  lake  was  presumably  fresh,  but 
it  was  thicker  than  gruel  with  mud.  I  had  a 
pocket  filter  that  refused  to  filter,  though  I 
sucked  at  it  till  I  was  black  in  the  face.  The  lake 
was  a  dark  cauldron  of  mud  stirred  constantly  by 
a  few  alligators  and  great  numbers  of  tarpon,  of 
which  many  were  continually  leaping  above  the 
surface.  For  half  an  hour  I  cast  and  trolled 
with  flies  and  bait  along  the  margin  of  the  pond 
without  getting  a  rise.  Then  I  gave  it  up  and 
helped  the  captain  and  Camera-man  by  con- 
tributing clothing  and  labor  to  the  calking  of  a 
wreck  of  a  skiff  originally  built  of  pieces  of  dry 
goods  boxes.    The  Camera-man  looked  ruefully 

195 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

at  the  result  and  said  as  he  stepped  cautiously 
aboard:  "I  don't  mind  being  drowned  in  clean 
water,  but  I  hate  being  smothered  in  mud." 

Then  he  pulled  off  his  cap  and  bailed  with  it, 
while  the  captain  and  I  paddled  with  sticks.  I 
left  my  rod  on  the  bank,  fearing  that  the  attempt 
to  catch  fish  from  that  crazy  craft  would  result 
in  the  fish  getting  us.  Moccasins  guarded  the 
borders  of  the  pond  and  one  key  that  we  passed 
was  worthy  the  name  of  Golgotha,  for  in  a  single 
season  two  hunters  had  piled  upon  it  the  skulls 
of  a  thousand  alligators  together  with  their 
bodies,  and  the  whitened  bones  yet  remained  in 
heaps.  In  shallow  coves  we  found  numbers  of  ill- 
odored  gar  and  on  the  margin  of  the  pond  the 
tracks  of  a  deer  which  caused  us  to  wonder  if  the 
creature  had  come  there  to  eat  the  water.  As  we 
approached  a  thicket  near  the  end  of  the  pond  a 
big,  black  creature  sprang  out  of  it  with  a  loud 
"wouf !"  and  shambled  swiftly  away  through  a 
tangle  where  a  man  would  have  found  it  difficult 
to  crawl. 

"That  must  be  the  bear  the  lake's  named  for," 
said  the  captain.  "I  shot  at  him  last  time  I  was 
here.    I  wish  I'd  had  my  rifle  with  me  to-day." 

196 


A  ZIGZAG  TRIP  AND  A  ZOO 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  have  it,"  I  replied,  "for 
if  you  had  fired  a  gun  in  this  tottlish  box  that 
bear  would  have  been  fishing  us  out  of  the  mud 
for  his  supper  by  this  time." 

"We  must  get  ashore  quick!"  broke  in  the 
Camera-man.  "There's  a  big  leak  and  I  can't 
keep  the  water  down." 

After  we  were  safely  ashore  we  found  that  the 
leak  was  in  the  bow  of  the  box  where  I  had  been 
sitting  and  came  from  a  rotten  board  that  I  must 
have  loosened  when  the  bear  made  me  jump. 

On  our  return  to  the  Irene  we  found  that  Joe 
had  had  a  busy  afternoon.  About  noon  a  ham- 
merhead shark  of  the  largest  size  had  called  upon 
him  and  been  treated  to  a  mullet  on  a  big  shark 
hook  at  the  end  of  a  half  inch  line.  The  fish 
swung  the  Irene  about  for  a  time  until  Joe  had 
attached  one  end  of  the  line  to  the  windlass  and 
cast  it  loose  from  the  cleat  that  had  held  it. 

Then  the  boy's  fun  began.  With  three  or  four 
turns  of  the  line  on  the  windlass  he  could  hold 
the  great  brute  with  his  left  hand,  giving  him 
rope  if  his  struggles  threatened  to  break  line  or 
hook.  His  right  hand  rested  on  the  lever  of  the  ^, 
windlass  and  he  wound  the  creature  in  as  oppor- 

197 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

tunity  offered.  The  hammerhead  is  the  most 
powerful  shark  of  its  size  and  as  Joe's  captive 
was  fourteen  and  one  half  feet  long,  the  boy  was 
as  tired  as  his  adversary  when  at  last  the  broad 
nose  of  this  strangely  formed  fish  swung  clear  of 
the  surface.  Then  Joe  looped  a  strong  line 
around  the  three-foot  nose  and  hooked  it  to  the 
throat  halliards  of  the  boat.  When  we  reached 
the  Irene  the  head  of  the  hammerhead  had  been 
hoisted  to  the  bulwarks  and  Joe  was  hammering 
it  vigorously  with  an  axe. 

"A  pretty  full  day,  Captain,"  said  I  as  I  re- 
called our  zigzagging  of  the  morning,  the  deer 
and  the  dolphin,  the  bear,  the  tarpon,  the  birds, 
the  sawfish,  and  shark. 

"A  whole  zoo,"  commented  the  Camera-man. 


198 


THE   HAPPIEST   DAY   OF  ALL 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  HAPPIEST  DAY  OF  ALL 

THE  pleasure  of  fishing  is  not  in  propor- 
tion to  the  score.    When  Charles  Dudley 
Warner  spoke  of  a  happy  day  on  the 
trout  stream  at  my  home  he  was  asked;    "What 
luck  did  you  have?" 

"I  saw  the  loveliest  trout  scenery  in  the  world." 

"But  how  many  trout  did  you  catch?" 

"I  made  some  beautiful  casts !" 

The  day  of  which  I  write  was  perhaps  the 

happiest  of  the  fishing  trip,  yet  not  a  hook  was 

baited,  a  harpoon  rigged,  nor  a  fish  caught.    We 

left  the  Cape  Sable  country  at  dawn  with  a 

favoring  current  of  air  that  hardly  sufficed  to  fill 

the  sails  and  left  the  surface  of  the  water  almost 

unruffled.    We  drifted  under  mainsail  alone  over 

the  shallow  Florida  Banks  and  I  sat  on  the  bow 

with  a  clear  view  to  the  horizon,  unbroken  save 

201 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

by  scattering  keys  with  their  tropical  foliage. 
Here  and  there  the  surface  of  the  water  was 
dotted  with  groups  of  pelicans  and  lesser  birds, 
and  often  broken  by  the  leaps  of  whip  rays  and 
tarpon  and  the  rolling  of  dolphins.  The  water 
was  so  clear  that  as  I  looked  down  we  seemed  to 
be  floating  in  air  above  a  beautiful  garden  of 
rare  products.  There  were  flowering  coral  in 
forms  infinitely  varied,  sea  feathers,  sponges  of 
many  sorts  that  seemed  to  live  and  breathe  as  I 
gazed  at  them  and  above  and  among  them,  dart- 
ing hither  and  thither,  were  tiny  fishes  of  many 
shapes  and  colors. 

Once  a  great  whip  ray  glided  almost  beneath 
me  and  I  looked  down  upon  a  broad,  flat  back, 
fully  eight  feet  in  diameter,  covered  with  white 
rings  on  a  black  ground,  as  uniform  and  bright 
as  a  fresh  linoleum  pattern.  Startled  by  a  mo- 
tion of  my  hand  as  the  creature  rose  to  the  sur- 
face, it  fluttered  away,  looking  like  a  giant 
butterfly  with  its  great  wings  waving  half  in  and 
half  out  of  the  water. 

Wireless  messages  of  good  will  must  have 
radiated  from  our  slow-moving  craft  to  the  crea- 
tures of  the  wild.    For  minutes  at  a  time  dolphins 

202 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAY  OF  ALL 

swam  within  a  harpoon's  throw  of  my  hand  while 
pelicans  in  our  path  waited  till  the  Irene  was 
within  its  length  of  them  before  starting  on  their 
heavy  flight.  Birds,  both  land  and  water,  showed 
strange  fearlessness.  A  passing  red-bird  lit  up- 
on the  masthead  and  sang  joyfully  to  us,  while  a 
stray  ehuck-wilFs-widow,  bird  of  the  night, 
dropped  within  reach  of  my  hand  and  rested  on 
the  deck  in  the  shadow  of  the  furled  jib.  Man- 
o'-war  hawks  swooped  under  our  counter  to  col- 
lect the  scraps  thrown  overboard  by  Joe  and  one 
even  touched  with  its  bill  a  fish  that  was  held  out 
to  it.  Several  tern  that  were  fishing  near  us  lit 
on  the  cabin  to  rest  and  ate  of  the  food  pushed 
toward  them,  while  one  in  payment  for  his  dinner 
sat  on  my  outstretched  finger  and  posed  for  the 
Camera-man. 

The  little  breeze  died  out,  but  I  couldn't  de- 
stroy the  delicious  peace  of  the  day  by  the  noisy 
churning  of  the  propeller  and  for  an  hour  we 
drifted.  The  time  might  have  been  better  em- 
ployed, for  when  black  clouds  piled  up  in  the 
southwest  and  a  heavy  squall  tore  up  the  water 
as  it  bore  down  on  us,  it  was  too  late  to  find  the 
shelter  we  needed.     Every  sail  was  furled  and 

203 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

we  were  churning  away  for  the  nearest  key  when 
the  shrieking  wind  struck  us  and  took  com- 
mand. Against  it  the  motor  couldn't  even  make 
steerage  way  and  the  best  it  could  do  was  to 
keep  the  big  anchor  from  dragging. 

The  scene  had  been  changed  as  by  a  magi- 
cian's wand.  The  deep  water  and  wide  sweep 
for  the  wind  which  make  for  big  waves  was 
wanting,  but  every  billow  was  crested  with  foam 
and  the  flying  drops  under  pressure  of  the  blast 
stung  our  faces  like  sleet.  When  the  fury  of  the 
squall  had  so  abated  that  the  motor  could  pull 
us  up  to  the  anchor  we  hoisted  it  and  started  for 
the  shelter  of  the  keys.  As  darkness  came  on  we 
anchored  close  under  the  lee  of  Bamboo  Key, 
which  enjoys  the  unusual  and  not  altogether 
merited  distinction  of  having  never  harbored  a 
mosquito. 

We  cruised  in  vain  for  tarpon  among  the 
outer  keys  until  we  reached  Bahia  Honda.  Be- 
tween that  and  No  Name  Key  the  channel  was 
alive  with  the  creatures  we  sought.  They  ap- 
peared to  be  at  play,  for  few  small  fish  were  in 
sight,  yet  two  or  three  of  the  largest  sized  tarpon 
could  be  seen  in  the  air  at  once. 

204* 


TARPON   TRAGEDIES 


CHAPTER  XVI     , 
TARPON  TRAGEDIES 

CAN'T  catch  those  fellers,"     said  the  cap- 
tain.    "They're  like  the  tarpon  in  the 
pool  at  Captiva  Pass.    They  ain't  fish- 
in'.    They're  at  some  game  of  their  own." 

We  attacked  the  enemy  in  our  usual  forma- 
tion, the  captain  and  I  in  advance  with  the  canoe, 
while  the  Camera-man  and  Joe  followed  in  the 
Green  Pea,  Up  and  down  the  channel  I  was 
paddled,  trailing  a  beautiful  bait,  artistically  cut 
from  the  belly  of  a  mullet.  Tarpon  jumped  all 
around  us,  so  fearless  of  our  presence  that  I 
looked  for  one  to  land  in  the  canoe,  but  not  one 
seemed  to  see  the  bait. 

"I  told  you  so,"  said  the  captain.  "When  tar- 
pon are  thataway  they  won't  bite  and  it's  no  use 
tryin'  to  make  'em." 

That  speech  of  the  captain  was  what  the  tar- 
207 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

pon  had  been  waiting  for  and  just  as  he  finished 
it  there  was  a  jerk  on  my  line  and  the  biggest 
tarpon  I  had  ever  seen  shot  high  in  the  air.  I 
can  safely  call  it  any  size  I  please,  since  I  had 
never  a  chance  to  measure  it.  It  looked  and 
pulled  like  the  biggest  kind  of  a  fish,  but  it 
jumped  as  often  as  a  little  one.  Straight  out  for 
the  Florida  Straits  it  swam,  never  swerving  from 
its  course,  but  tearing  line  from  the  reel  in  spite 
of  all  the  strain  I  could  put  on  it  with  the  cap- 
tain paddling  his  best.  Suddenly  the  fish 
changed  its  method  and  after  two  leaps  in  quick 
succession  swam  for  the  canoe,  swift  and  straight 
as  an  arrow. 

The  eflFort  to  keep  a  strain  on  the  line  was 
hopeless,  yet  I  reeled  in  as  fast  as  I  could,  but 
when  the  tarpon  made  a  long,  low  leap,  striking 
the  water  a  canoe  length  from  us,  I  was  at  least 
fifty  feet  of  line  to  the  bad.  I  wound  on  desper- 
ately, though  I  knew  if  the  jump  were  repeated 
the  canoe  would  be  split  fore  and  aft,  while  a 
number  of  things  might  happen  to  me.  Instead 
of  knocking  me  endwise  as  I  feared,  the  tarpon 
swerved  aside  and  when  the  line  tautened  it  led 
behind  the  canoe  and  ran  under  the  bow  of  the 

W8 


•p 

*'^^^.    \  •  4 

>              k"          "i     W^I^H 

I 

^H 

gi,^.,^j 

TARPON  TRAGEDIES 

motor  boat.  I  yelled  to  Joe  to  back  out  of  the 
way,  but  it  was  quite  needless  for  he  had  already 
reversed  the  engine  and  in  another  second  the 
danger  of  cutting  the  line  with  the  propeller  was 
past.  For  a  minute  the  tarpon  kept  a  straight 
course,  then  after  two  wild  leaps  came  back  for 
the  canoe.  Again  it  passed  us,  once  more  out- 
ward bound,  but  soon  jumped  wildly  and  dashed 
to  the  right,  the  left,  and  on  again. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  tarpon?"  asked 
the  captain. 

"Hydrophobia,  I  reckon;  seems  to  hate  to  stay 
in  the  water." 

"He's  bughouse,  all  right,  but  the  sharks  must 
be  after  him." 

The  tarpon  jumped  again,  the  water  boiled 
around  him  and  the  strain  on  the  line  ceased.  As 
I  wound  it  in  there  came  to  the  surface  and  was 
dragged  along,  the  head  and  about  a  foot  of  the 
body  of  the  great  tarpon  which  had  been  bitten  in 
two  by  some  bigger  fish  as  easily  as  great  power 
shears  snip  armor  plate.  I  wound  in  the  ghastly 
remnant  for  a  nearer  view  and  to  recover  my 
hook,  but  when  it  was  almost  within  reach  of  my 
hand  there  floated  up  from  beneath  it  a  huge 

209 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

dark  body  with  a  cavern  of  a  mouth  which  closed 
over  what  was  left  of  the  tarpon.  Again  the 
line  ran  out,  but  this  time  with  a  firm  pull  as  if 
fastened  to  a  slow  freight  train.  When  the 
shark  found  that  he  was  hooked  he  turned, 
rolled,  and  twisted  about  till  he  had  the  line  in 
his  mouth.  But  it  was  the  steel  wire  end  of  the 
line  and  after  biting  it  a  few  times  the  puzzled 
shark  gave  it  up  and  swam  quietly  away  to 
meditate. 

"Sorry  we  lost  the  tarpon,  but  we've  got  a  big 
shark  to  show  for  it,"  said  the  captain. 

"Looks  the  other  way  round  to  me.  We  might 
as  well  try  to  tow  a  house  and  he  won't  be  worried 
into  tiring  himself  out." 

"Coax  him  into  shoal  water  and  pound  his 
head,  same  as  we  did  at  Boca  Grande." 

But  he  wouldn't  be  coaxed  and  when  I  tried 
to  reel  him  in,  I  merely  pulled  the  light  canoe 
over  him.  Then  he  came  to  the  surface,  lifting 
his  big  dorsal  fin  high  above  it  and  turning  his 
huge  body  until  the  cavernous  mouth  with  its 
rows  of  introverted  serrated  teeth  was  in  position 
to  engulf  us  as  it  had  the  tarpon. 

"Let  up  on  that  linel"  shouted  the  captain  as 
210 


TARPON  TRAGEDIES 

he  backed  water  with  his  paddle.  "That  devil 
could  swallow  us  whole." 

I  turned  loose  the  line  before  replying. 

"You  have  often  said,  Captain,  that  sharks 
wouldn't  tackle  a  man  and  that  you  would  run 
the  biggest  of  'em  out  of  the  country  with  a 
stick!" 

"When  I  said  that  I  was  in  shoal  water.  It's 
the  canoe  I'm  afraid  of.  They'd  eat  that  up  fur 
the  fun  of  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  lose  the  canoe,  so  I'll  keep 
twenty  yards  away  from  this  brute." 

The  shark  towed  us  back  and  forth  for  an 
hour,  sometimes  going  far  out  from  the  key  and 
at  others  running  close  to  the  shore.  Once  I 
landed  on  the  beach  and  putting  on  the  line  all 
the  strain  it  would  bear  tried  to  turn  or  tire  the 
shark.  I  only  succeeded  in  driving  it  off  shore 
at  so  rapid  a  gait  that  I  had  to  hustle  to  get  back 
in  the  canoe,  before  my  reel  was  emptied.  An- 
other hour  dragged  on,  when  the  Camera-man, 
who  had  been  patiently  following  us,  sang  out : 

"What  are  we  fishing  for,  tarpon  or  sharks?" 

"Tarpon,  from  this  minute!"  I  replied,  and 
reeling  in  line  till  I  was  as  near  the  monster  as 

211 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

I  cared  to  be,  I  cut  it  and  set  fish  and  fisherman 
free. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  that  for  an  hour,"  ex- 
claimed the  captain  as  he  turned  the  canoe  to- 
ward shore. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  channel  between  the 
keys  the  tarpon  had  ceased  to  jump  and  I  feared 
they  had  gone,  but  before  I  had  trolled  a  minute 
the  bait  had  been  taken  by  a  tarpon  that  made  a 
picturesque  fight,  but  a  brief  one,  for  soon  the 
sharks  were  on  its  track.  There  came  long, 
straight  runs,  followed  by  two  or  three  wild 
jumps  and  a  dash  to  one  side.  Then  I  lessened 
the  strain  on  the  line  and  gave  the  tarpon  its 
head  till  the  danger  from  the  shark  was  past. 
Untrammeled  and  fresh,  the  tarpon  could  play 
all  around  the  sharks  and  by  watching  for 
danger  signs  I  helped  it  escape  its  foes  while  the 
Camera-man  got  the  pictures  he  sought.  When 
the  fish  grew  weaker  I  pulled  the  canoe  quickly 
beside  it  to  remove  the  hook  and  free  the  creature 
from  danger.  I  was  all  too  late,  for  when  within 
reach  of  my  hand  the  tarpon  rose  half  out  of 
water,  its  body  already  encircled  by  those  rows 
of  cruel  teeth  that  never  give  up  their  prey.  The 

212 


^^m 


ONE    TARPON    CA^Il'^    TO    INF'RET    T^S    JT/ST    OP'^F    THE 
HOTEL. 


IN     PAYMENT     FOR     HIS     DINNER    HE     POSED     ON 
MY    OUTSTRETCHED    FINGERS. 


TARPON  TRAGEDIES 

jaws  closed  with  a  crunch   as  the   great   fish 
swirled,  dashing  into  my  face  water  and  blood. 

"Got  a  shark  on  your  line,  look  out!"  shouted 
the  captain  and  I  saw  that  a  second  shark  had 
swallowed  the  head  of  our  quarry.  I  put  no 
pressure  on  the  brake  of  the  reel,  but  turning 
the  tip  of  the  rod  to  the  captain  said: 

"Cut  that  line,  quick  as  you  can.  I've  had  all 
the  shark  I  want  for  to-day." 

We  paddled  beside  the  motor  boat  and  talked 
of  the  tragedy — for  at  the  moment  it  seemed  no 
less.  As  we  conversed  the  blood  of  the  slaugh- 
tered tarpon  flowed  on  with  the  tide,  making  an 
ever-broadening,  hot-scented  trail  up  which 
streamed  the  savage  sea-dogs.  On  every  side 
they  were  dashing  about,  and  I  could  feel  that 
they  were  sniffing  the  tainted  water,  savage  at 
being  baffled  of  their  prey.  As  they  surged  about 
our  craft  the  Camera-man  inquired  of  me ; 

"Do  you  cling  to  your  faith  that  sharks  in 
American  waters  won't  bite  folks?" 

"You  know  faith  has  been  defined  as  *belie£ 
in  things  that  ain't  so'!" 

"I  reckon  that's  your  kind,"  said  he,  and  I 
didn't  feel  like  denying  it. 

213 


THE  TARPON  AND  THE  TEMPEST 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  TARPON  AND  THE  TEMPEST 

FETCH  on  your  tarpon,  I'm  ready  for 
them,"  said  the  Camera-man  as  he  came 
up  the  companionway. 

"I  thought  you'd  used  your  last  plate,"  I  re- 
plied. 

"So  I  have,  and  my  camera  is  packed  for  home. 
That's  why  I  want  to  see  a  tarpon.  Up  to  now 
I've  been  scared  to  see  them,  afraid  the  camera 
wouldn't  work,  or  that  I'd  miss  a  shot  or  fire  at 
the  wrong  time." 

"I  am  afraid  your  last  chance  has  gone.  It's  a 
night  run  up  the  coast  and  a  train  from  Myers 
to-morrow  for  us." 

"There's  more  tarpon  a  cable  length  ahead  of 
us  than  I  ever  saw  in  a  bunch,"  said  the  captain. 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  asked.  "I've  been 
watching  the  water  and  haven't  seen  a  jump. 
You  surely  can't  see  the  fish  under  water?" 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

"That's  jest  what  I  did,  when  I  clumb  the 
mast." 

The  Camera-man  and  I  went  forward  and 
stood  on  the  cabin,  studying  the  clear  water  be- 
fore us.  We  were  on  the  shallow  banks  south  of 
Cape  Sable,  slowly  moving  northward  before  a 
gentle  breeze  that  scarcely  caused  a  ripple  in  the 
water. 

We  came  upon  the  tarpon,  a  great  school  of 
them,  all  large  and  headed  northwest.  They 
were  swimming  in  a  regular  formation  that  ex- 
tended hundreds  of  feet  and  covered  many  &cres. 
There  were  probably  thousands  of  tarpon  in  the 
bunch.  Those  in  our  path  sheered  aside  to  avoid 
us,  but  none  seemed  alarmed. 

"The  rods  are  still  in  commission,  and  I'll 
paddle  you  if  you  would  like  to  try  them,"  said 
I  to  the  Camera-man. 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  the  least  chance,  but 
I'd  like  to  be  reminded  how  a  rod  feels,"  was 
the  reply  and  we  were  soon  in  the  canoe  among 
the  tarpon. 

I  paddled  slowly  and  I  paddled  fast.  In  the 
clear  water  on  the  light  banks  every  scale  of  a 
tarpon    could    be    seen    and    the    bait    almost 

218 


THE  TARPON  AND  THE  TEMPEST 

maneuvered  into  its  mouth.  It  was  wasted 
effort.  The  fish  swerved  aside  from  the  bait  and 
a  little  more  so  from  the  canoe.  We  passed 
through  the  column  of  tarpon  without  getting  a 
strike,  but  I  continued  to  paddle  and  the  bait  was 
still  trolled.  The  captain  had  been  instructed  to 
luff  up  and  wait  for  us  when  he  got  two  or  three 
miles  ahead.  But  it  was  we  who  were  two  or 
three  miles  ahead,  between  Sandy  Key  and 
North- West  Cape. 

"Better  put  up  your  rod  and  take  a  paddle," 
I  suggested.  "We'll  paddle  up  the  coast  to 
Harney  River  or  even  to  Pavilion  Key.  It  will 
make  us  think  of  old  times." 

The  answer  came  in  the  scream  of  the  reel  and 
I  turned  in  time  to  see  the  leap  of  a  tarpon  which 
we  had  failed  to  see  despite  the  clearness  of  the 
water.  Again  the  tarpon  leaped,  many,  many 
feet  in  the  air,  while  with  wide  open  mouth,  gills 
blurred  to  the  sight,  twisting  body,  and  wildly 
shaking  head  the  gorgeous  creature  appeared 
within  a  halo  of  rainbow-making  drops.  Once 
more  it  leaped,  but  quietly,  scarcely  more  than 
breaking  the  surface  of  the  water  as  it  slipped 
through  it.    The  diamond  sparkle  of  flying  drops 

219 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

was  lacking,  but  the  sun  shone  squarely  on  those 
silvery  scales  which  reflected  its  dazzling  rays 
back  to  our  enchanted  eyes. 

"Did  you  ever  see  so  radiant  a  picture?"  asked 
the  Camera-man,  forgetting  his  duty  to  his  rod. 

"Never!"  I  replied,  "and  you  won't  again  if 
you  don't  take  in  the  slack  of  your  line." 

As  the  line  tautened  the  fish  jumped  and  dart- 
ing away  kept  me  busy  with  the  paddle  while  my 
companion  was  fully  occupied  with  his  reel. 
When  the  pace  slackened  I  continued : 

"I've  been  so  busy  with  the  rod  that  I  haven't 
had  a  chance  to  enjoy  the  show.  I'm  getting  my 
innings  now,  though." 

"So  am  I.  I  never  before  understood  what 
an  incubus  the  camera  was.  I  was  so  busy  look- 
ing for  pictures  for  others  that  I  couldn't  see  any 
for  myself." 

"But  don't  you  wish  you  had  a  negative  of  that 
splendid  leap  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun  with 
these  perfect  surroundings?" 

"I  already  have  a  better  picture  of  it  all  than 
any  camera  could  make.  My  picture  was  taken 
in  colors  and  the  angle  of  my  lens  was  360  de- 
grees." 

220 


THE  TARPON  AND  THE  TEMPEST 

After  leading  us  nearly  to  the  cape,  the  tarpon 
turned  sharply  to  the  west  where  storm-clouds 
were  beginning  to  roll  up  from  the  horizon. 
They  grew  blacker  as  we  advanced,  sending  forth 
shafts  of  lightning  and  spreading  upward  until 
their  deep  shadows  fell  on  the  water  and  their 
inky  blackness  threatened  to  obscure  the  sun. 
The  faint  sound  of  a  horn  came  from  the  Irene 
and  I  knew  that  the  captain  was  anxious,  but  we 
were  having  the  sport  of  a  lifetime  and  it  seemed 
worth  all  the  risk.  Besides  the  canoe  was  safer 
in  a  storm  than  the  big  boat. 

"You  haven't  many  minutes  left!"  I  called  to 
the  Camera-man.  "You'll  have  to  chuck  the  rod 
before  the  squall  that's  coming  gets  here.  One 
paddle  won't  be  any  use  then." 

"That's  all  right,  but  I'll  hang  on  till  it 
comes,"  was  the  reply  and  he  reeled  in  line  so 
rapidly  that  the  canoe  was  soon  within  twenty 
feet  of  the  tarpon.  The  squall  struck  the  water 
half  a  mile  away,  whitening  the  surface  as  it 
swept  toward  us.  The  shadows  grew  deeper  as 
the  black  cloud  mass  touched  the  edge  of  the  sun 
and  our  margin  of  safety  was  reduced  to  seconds. 
A  last  turn  of  the  reel  brought  the  tarpon  within 

9.91 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

ten  feet  of  the  canoe  and  the  frightened  creature 
shot  high  into  the  air,  parting  the  line  in  its  leap. 
There  was  danger  of  its  swamping  the  canoe  for 
it  grazed  the  bow  as  it  fell,  but  we  had  no  room  in 
our  minds  for  a  thought  of  danger  in  the  presence 
of  the  picture  without  parallel. 

The  most  beautiful  creature  on  earth,  a  veri- 
table Fish  God,  panoplied  with  glistening  mail  of 
frosted  silver,  bordered  with  royal  purple,  and 
vibrant  with  life,  was  before  us.  The  brilliant 
rays  of  the  unclouded  sun  fell  full  upon  it  while 
just  behind  the  onrushing  shadow  of  a  great 
cloud  swept  toward  us.  The  background  of  the 
picture  was  a  sky  of  inky  blackness  from  which 
the  forked  lightnings  were  playing.  Below,  a 
wind-driven  wall  of  rain  with  accompanying 
white  caps  was  just  at  hand. 

For  one  long,  unforgettable  moment  the  fish 
poised  in  mid  air,  then — the  picture  faded,  the 
rod  was  dropped  in  the  canoe,  and  the  paddle 
seized.  Darkness  came  with  the  flood  of  rain 
and  the  blow  of  the  storm  and  we  closed  our  eyes 
to  the  one  and  leaned  forward  against  the  thrust 
of  the  other.  The  wind  raged  against  us,  striving 
to  drive  our  craft  out  of  the  water,  but  always 

222 


THE  TARPON  AND   THE   TEMPEST 

the  sharp  bow  of  the  canoe  met  and  parted  it  till 
it  swept  past,  unharming.  Kneeling,  with 
paddles  dipped,  we  held  the  craft  true  to  the 
wind  as  the  needle  to  the  pole.  As  the  waves 
rolled  higher  the  canoe  rose  gently  to  them,  while 
their  foam-flecked  crests,  torn  loose  by  the  wind, 
were  dashed  in  our  faces. 

"Isn't  it  glorious?"  came  to  me  from  the  bow, 
through  the  hissing  of  the  rain  and  the  roar  of 
the  storm,  but  the  howling  wind  swept  my  an- 
swer away. 

Suddenly,  almost  as  it  began,  the  rain  ceased, 
but  the  gale  continued  and  the  waves  rose  rapid- 
ly. As  the  stern  of  the  canoe  settled  in  the  hol- 
lows between  them,  the  bow  was  lifted  above 
their  crests,  and  the  wind  seizing  it  struggled  to 
toss  the  craft  end  over  end.  Once  in  the  trough 
of  the  sea  the  curling  crest  of  the  next  wave 
would  have  poured  over  the  side  or  the  wind 
rolled  the  canoe  over  like  a  log.  There  was  joy 
in  holding  our  course,  so  quartering  to  each  on- 
coming roller  that  every  danger  was  avoided  and 
our  craft  rode  smoothly  the  high-mounting  bil- 
lows. When  the  chance  came  to  look  around  I 
saw  the  Irene  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  leeward. 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

She  was  reefed  down  to  the  last  points,  with  just 
enough  jib  for  steerage  way  and  was  plugging 
along,  graceful  as  a  Chinese  junk.  Half  an  hour 
later  as  we  boarded  her  she  was  banging  about  in 
a  heavy  sea,  without  breeze  enough  to  keep  her 
main  boom  from  threatening  to  knock  off  our 
heads. 

"Glad  to  see  you  back!"  was  the  captain's  wel- 
come to  us.    "I  was  scared  one  time." 

"So  was  I,  but  I  thought  you  knew  the  Irene 
well  enough  to  pull  through  without  our  help  so 
we  staid  and  had  our  fun  out."  The  captain's 
only  reply  was  to  turn  his  back  on  me. 

Waves  in  the  shallow  waters  of  the  Gulf, 
though  often  short  and  ugly,  subside  quickly, 
especially  when  the  storm  has  been  local  and  an 
hour  later  we  were  gliding  up  the  Florida  coast 
with  the  sun  as  bright,  the  sky  as  blue  as  before 
the  squall,  and  nothing  in  Nature  but  the  slow 
heave  of  the  Gulf  to  remind  us  of  all  that  had 
happened. 

"Excitement  is  over  for  the  day,  I  reckon," 
said  I  to  the  captain  as  he  stood  at  the  wheel  of 
the  Irene. 

"Mebbe  it's  jest  beginnin'.     See  them  clouds 


DON'T  TRY  TO  CAPTURE  THE  BIGGEST  FISH  WITH 

THE    SMALLEST    ROD    EXCEPTING 

PERHAPS   JUST    ONCE. 


DARTING      AWAY      KEPT      ME 
PADDLE. 


BUSY     WITH     THr. 


THE  TARPON  AND  THE  TEMPEST 

on  the  port  bow?  They're  mixin'  up  trouble. 
Look,  see!  Know  what  them  tails  is  droppin' 
out  of  the  sky  for?" 

"Looks  like  waterspouts?" 

"Sure!  Right  off  Shark  River  Bight,  too! 
That's  where  they  make  'em.  I've  seen  four 
there  to  onct." 

"They  won't  trouble  us.  This  wind  will  carry 
them  away." 

"Wind  nothin'!  They  make  their  own  wind. 
See  'em  now!  Two  dead  and  t'other  pumping 
water  from  th'  Gulf,  a  barrel  a  second.  Comin' 
this  way,  fast,  too!" 

The  waterspout  was  growing  with  amazing 
rapidity.  The  massed  black  clouds  formed  a 
huge,  inverted  cone  with  its  apex  resting  on 
another  cone  of  water  which  rose  swirling  from 
the  Gulf.  The  gigantic  hour-glass  came  swaying 
toward  us.  It  grew  stouter  in  the  middle,  blacker 
above,  and  more  turbulent  below.  More  impres- 
sive than  the  picture  itself  was  the  thought  of  the 
tremendous  invisible  power  that  before  our  eyes 
was  hoisting  water  to  the  clouds  by  the  hundred 
tons. 

"You  don't  seem  in  much  hurry  to  get  out  of 
225 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

the  way,"  said  I  to  the  captain,  as  the  roar  of 
great  waters  came  to  my  ear. 

"Wanted  you  to  git  a  good  look  at  it.  Be- 
sides we  couldn't  run  away  with  this  wind  and 
there  won't  be  any  in  a  minute." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  south  wind  ceased  and  a 
gust  from  the  north  caught  the  sails  aback  and 
set  the  boom  banging  over  our  heads.  Puff  after 
puff  struck  us  from  one  direction  after  another 
until  we  seemed  to  be  the  battleground  for  the 
four  winds  of  heaven. 

"Start  up  the  engine,  please!"  said  the  captain 
to  the  Camera-man,  and,  "let  go  the  halliards!" 
he  shouted  to  Joe,  while  he  trimmed  in  the  main 
sheet  till  the  boom  swung  amidships.  As  he  was 
helping  Joe  lash  the  mainsail  to  the  boom  the 
propeller  began  to  churn  the  water  and  he  called 
to  me: 

"Head  her  for  shore!  Hold  her  straight  for 
the  point  north  o'  Shark  River!" 

When  the  captain  got  back  to  the  wheel  the 
waterspout  was  dangerously  near  with  its  um- 
brella-like top  almost  overhanging  us. 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  better  to  run  out  into 
the  Gulf?"  I  asked. 

226 


THE  TARPON  AND  THE  TEMPEST 

"She'd  have  foUered  us,"  he  replied,  "I've  had 
one  chase  me  half  way  round  the  compass." 

"It's  coming  straight  enough  for  us  now!" 

"She'll  bust  when  she  strikes  shoal  water. 
That'll  be  in  a  minute,  now — I  hope,"  he  added 
anxiously. 

I  hoped  so,  too,  and  already  the  end  W3,s  in 
sight.  The  swirling  column  of  water  thickened 
with  mud  torn  from  the  bottom  and  I  saw,  or 
thought  I  saw,  an  area  of  marked  depression  out- 
side of  the  base  of  the  waterspout.  The  top  be- 
came more  unsteady  and  the  bottom  more  turbu- 
lent, while  its  forward  motion  ceased  and  our 
boat  began  to  widen  the  distance  between  us 
and  the  monster. 

"There  she  goesl"  shouted  the  captain,  point- 
ing out  a  palmetto  log  as  it  slid  down  the  in- 
clined plane  of  water  and  plunged  into  the  base 
of  the  towering  mass.  At  first  the  log  was  lost 
in  the  column  of  water,  but  as  it  reached  the  nar- 
row part  of  the  hour-glass  formation  it  was 
thrown  crosswise  of  the  column  and  the  water- 
spout broke  in  two. 

Great  masses  of  water,  crashing  from  the 
clouds,  tore  the  surface  of  the  Gulf  and  the  Irene 

^27 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

was  tossed  about  like  a  cork.    The  first  human 
sound  that  followed  the  roar  of  the  falling  water 
was  the  wail  of  the  Camera-man: 
"Why  didn't  I  save  one  plate?" 


WHERE  AND  HOW 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
WHERE  AND  HOW 

IF  there  is  better  tarpon  fishing  in  the  world 
than  can  be  had  at  Boca  Grande,  on 
the  west  coast  of  Florida,  I  have 
never  heard  of  it.  On  the  north  side  of 
this  mile-wide,  ten-fathom  pass,  which  connects 
Charlotte  Harbor  with  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  is  a 
railroad  station,  within  three  hundred  yards  of 
which  I  have  found  as  good  all  around  big  tar- 
pon fishing  as  I  have  ever  known.  Here  the 
dark  outflow  of  Peace  Creek  and  the  Myakka 
River  cuts  through  the  clear  water  of  the  Gulf, 
leaving  banks  that  are  sharply  defined.  Often 
the  fishing  in  Boca  Grande  itself  is  more  ex- 
citing, but  conditions  of  wind  and  tide  frequently 
make  the  pass  perilous  to  small  craft.  There  is 
room  in  the  big  pass  for  a  hundred  or  a  thou- 
sand fishing  craft  and  no  amount  of  fishing  seems 
to  frighten  the  fish. 

231 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Seven  miles  down  the  coast  is  Captiva  Pass 
where  in  rough  weather  the  fishing  is  better  than 
in  Boca  Grande,  but  a  few  boats  in  a  few  days 
will  drive  the  last  tarpon  away. 

Between  these  two  passes  is  Joseffa  Island 
where  tarpon  fishermen  most  do  congregate. 
Boats,  boatmen,  and  bait  are  provided  for  guests 
and  fishing  is  made  automatic.  Sometimes  the 
boatmen  are  haughty,  and  I  have  heard  guests 
complain  of  the  little  liberty  allowed  them  by 
tyrannical  guides,  but  it  has  usually  seemed  to 
me  that  they  were  only  getting  what  was  coming 
to  them.  The  possessor  of  a  launch  can  live  at 
Punta  Gorda,  twelve  miles  from  Boca  Grande, 
and  make  daily  trips  to  either  of  the  passes.  The 
owner  of  a  yacht  or  houseboat  can  find  good  har- 
bors near  any  of  the  passes,  while  to  the  camper 
the  whole  range  of  the  beautiful,  breezy  beach 
lies  open. 

Oldest  of  all  the  tarpon  resorts  is  Shultz's  at 
Punta  Rassa.  The  old  hotel,  far-famed  for  age 
and  ugliness,  was  burned  a  few  years  ago  and  a 
modern  structure  has  taken  its  place.  Shultz  is 
still  there,  however,  and  his  hotel  contains  a 
replica  of  "Murderer's  Row"  where  the  great  tar- 


WHERE  AND  HOW 

pon  fishermen  of  the  past  generation  have  been 
housed.  From  Punta  Rassa  fishermen  go  out 
daily  to  Matlacha  Pass,  between  Pine  Island  and 
the  mainland,  up  to  Caloosahatchee  River,  or 
to  any  one  of  several  points  in  Pine  Island 
Sound.  Ten  miles  from  Punta  Rassa,  down  the 
bight  below  Sanibel,  Carlos  Pass  leads  in  to 
Estero  Bay,  Surveyor's  Creek,  and  other  tarpon 
grounds. 

Easiest  to  reach  of  all  tarpon  centers  is  Fort 
Myers  on  the  Caloosahatchee  River.  Hotel  ac- 
commodation, boats,  boatmen,  and  tackle  can  al- 
ways be  found  there,  and  in  five  consecutive  days 
fishing  nearby  I  captured  thirty-five  big  tarpon. 

Forty  miles  south  of  Punta  Rassa  is  Marco, 
which  has  changed  little  since  I  began  visiting  it 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  The  boat  service  be- 
tween Punta  Rassa  and  Marco  is  irregular,  but 
difficult  as  it  is  to  get  there,  it  is  yet  harder  to 
get  away,  as  I  found  when  having  contemplated 
a  visit  of  a  week  or  two,  I  stayed  as  many  years. 
The  fisherman  should  take  his  own  tackle  to 
Marco,  but  boats  and  boatmen  can  always  be 
found  there  for  trips  of  a  day  or  a  month. 

From  Marco  to  Everglade,  on  Chokoloskee 
«33 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Bay,  is  twenty-five  miles.  This,  is  the  last  place 
on  the  west  coast  at  which  the  fisherman  can  be 
comfortably  housed.  If  the  Storters  like  your 
looks  you  will  find  yourself  in  pleasant  quarters. 
The  house  is  at  the  mouth  of  Allen's  River, 
where  a  few  tarpon  can  always  be  found,  while 
Turner's  River,  five  miles  down  the  bay,  is  their 
natural  home.  In  three  days  on  the  latter  I  took 
thirty-two  on  an  eight-ounce  fly-rod,  the  largest 
of  which  measured  six  and  one-half  feet  in  length 
and  weighed  about  one  hundred  and  forty 
pounds. 

South  of  Chokoloskee  Bay  the  fisherman  must 
have  a  cruising  boat  or  be  prepared  to  camp  out. 
In  the  first  twelve  miles  are  three  rivers,  Barnes, 
Hueston,  and  Chatham,  all  favorite  watering  re- 
sorts for  tarpon.  Ten  miles  farther  bring  the 
fisherman  to  Lossman's  River,  where  also  tarpon 
may  be  found,  and  another  ten  miles  will  land 
him  at  the  mouths  of  Rodger's  and  Broad  Rivers, 
either  of  which  is  likely  to  be  filled  with  the  fish. 
Two  miles  south  he  will  find  the  mouth  of  Harney 
River  with  its  twelve  miles  of  devious  channels 
and  bays,  the  only  natural  stream  on  the  West 
Coast  through  which  a  craft  of  moderate  size  can 

^34 


WHERE  AND  HOW 

reach  the  Everglades.  The  head  of  Harney 
River  is  a  nursery  for  tarpon,  with  miles  of  tiny 
streams  through  which  baby  tarpon  can  be  fol- 
lowed where  there  is  scant  room  to  turn  a  canoe, 
in  water  darkened  by  overhanging  branches  that 
meet  above  them. 

A  branch  of  Harney  River  leads  to  the  labyrin- 
thic  channels  and  several  mouths  of  Shark  River, 
where  a  few  tarpon  may  be  found  at  all  seasons 
of  the  year.  But  its  crooked  channels  are  guarded 
by  snags  and  oyster  bars,  and  its  under-cut  banks 
by  a  maze  of  projecting  mangrove  roots,  all  de- 
structive of  the  tackle  and  temper  of  the  tarpon 
fisherman. 

Thirty  miles  from  Harney  River,  down  the 
coast  and  around  the  three  Capes  Sable,  is 
Flamingo,  home  of  the  late  Guy  Bradley.  Near 
here,  at  Joe  Kemp's  Key,  is  good  anchorage  and 
fair  camping  ground,  while  before  it  spread  out 
the  shallow  waters  and  beautiful  keys  of  Florida 
Bay.  Here,  too,  tarpon  abound,  but  their  pur- 
suit with  the  rod  is  apt  to  be  disappointing  as  in 
the  clear,  shallow  water  the  fish  can  see  the  fisher- 
man's game  too  easily. 

It  will  hardly  pay  the  sportsman  to  go  south 
285 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

of  Cape  Sable,  for  although  there  are  tarpon 
along  the  outer  keys,  there  are  too  many  sharks 
on  the  outlook,  and  it  is  not  pleasant  to  have  to 
dispute  for  possession  of  one's  quarry  with  a 
tiger  of  the  sea. 

March,  April,  and  a  part  of  May  are  the  con- 
ventional fishing  months,  when  the  hotels  are 
filled  and  prices  of  everything  from  board  to 
boatmen  are  at  their  highest,  but  the  time  to 
catch  tarpon  is  in  June,  July,  and  August.  There 
is  good  fishing  in  May,  but  then  heat  and 
mosquitoes  are  at  their  worst.  With  June  come 
cooling  showers  and  breezes,  fewer  insects,  often 
almost  none,  and  a  climate  that  contrasts  de- 
liciously  with  that  of  the  heated  term  in  New 
York. 

I  append  a  table  of  the  results  of  a  photo- 
graphic tarpon  trip,  extending  from  Boca 
Grande  to  Harney  River  during  July  and  Au- 
gust of  a  recent  year.  The  total  of  334  tarpon 
captured  would  have  been  largely  increased  had 
I  not  stopped  fishing  whenever  the  Camera-man's 
plates  were  exhausted.  The  tarpon  varied  from 
one  and  one-half  pounds  to  a  hundred  times  that 
weight  and  in  length  from  eighteen  inches  to  six 


WHERE  AND  HOW 

and  one-half  feet.  All  were  taken  from  a  light 
Peterboro  canoe  and  sixty-three  of  them  on  an 
eight-ounce  fly-rod.  Most  of  the  rest  were  cap- 
tured with  heavy  tarpon  rods,  though  a  few  were 
taken  on  hand  lines.  The  fly-rod  work  was  all 
my  own,  but  I  often  exchanged  the  heavy  rod 
and  the  hand  line  for  my  boatman's  paddle.  The 
work  was  about  equally  strenuous,  but  the  change 
of  occupation  was  a  relief. 


Summary  of  Catch 

15  days  Boca  Grande 

84 

tarpon 

14      "    Captiva  Pass 

66 

5      "    Caloosahatchee  River 

35 

3      "    Marco 

14 

5      "    Harney  River  (fly-rod) 

25 

2      "    Broad  River 

13 

3      "    Hueston  River 

30 

3      "    Turner's  River  (32  fly-rod) 

56 

2      "    Allen's  River  (6  fly-rod) 

11 

52  days 

334 

tarpon 

For  a  de  luxe  tarpon  trip,  the  fisherman  should 
begin  by  taking  a  hundred  dollar  bill  to  a  sports- 

237 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

man's  supply  shop  in  New  York  and  asking  for 
a  tarpon  outfit.  Then  if  he  sticks  to  his  text  and 
doesn't  let  the  dealer  saddle  him  with  anything 
irrelevant,  from  an  alforjas  to  a  yacht  stove,  he 
will  get  back  enough  change  to  tip  his  waiter  at 
lunch.  His  outfit  will  be  complete  from  his 
forty-odd  dollar  jewelled  reel  and  four-dollar 
lines  down  to  the  thermos  bottle  that  is  to  keep 
his  milk  cool  while  he  fishes. 

Some  of  the  tackle  which  we  used  on  our  photo- 
graphic trip  was  first  class,  but  after  we  had 
broken  two  rods  and  spoiled  a  reel,  we  did  good 
work  with  a  twenty-five  cent  bamboo  pole,  a  four- 
dollar  reel,  hooks  at  seventy-five  cents  a  hundred, 
and  No.  13  piano  wire  which  I  bought  at  seventy 
cents  a  pound  in  New  York  after  paying  a  dealer 
at  the  rate  of  seven  dollars  a  pound  for  the  same 
thing.  Our  hand  line  fishing  was  done  with 
soft  cotton  line  about  one-sixteenth  of  an  inch 
in  diameter.  It  was  found  necessary  to  supple- 
ment this  with  canvas  gloves  or  mittens. 

Aside  from  photographic  paraphernalia,  the 
cost  to  two  people  of  a  trip  like  this  can  be  as 
little  as  they  choose  to  make  it,  if  they  are  willing 
to  do  the  ordinary  work  of  the  easiest  kind  of 


WHERE  AND  HOW 

camping.  There  is  substantially  nothing  in  the 
navigation  involved  that  the  Camera-man  and  I 
have  not  accomplished  in  a  light  canoe.  We  have 
camped  for  weeks  at  and  beyond  the  more  distant 
points  named,  with  no  better  protection  than  a 
cheese  cloth  mosquito  bar  with  a  waterproofed 
canvas  top.  The  entire  value  of  the  clothing  I 
wore,  from  linen  cap  to  canvas  shoes,  was  less 
than  five  dollars.  The  cost  of  the  simple  cooking 
outfit,  bought  at  a  country  store  as  we  started, 
wouldn't  have  paid  for  a  dinner  in  the  city.  The 
necessary  expense  of  supplies  for  such  a  trip  is 
really  negligible.  Matches,  salt,  pepper,  twenty 
pounds  of  corn  meal,  a  piece  of  fat  pork  for 
greasing  the  griddle,  and  a  gallon  of  Florida 
syrup  will  set  one  back  about  a  dollar  and  pro- 
vide the  groceries  required  for  a  trip  of  weeks. 

A  hatchet,  a  few  cents  worth  of  hooks  and  line, 
a  pair  of  grains,  and  the  cheapest  kind  of  a  sin- 
gle-barrel shotgun  or  rifle  with  cartridges  should 
be  carried.  Rust  would  eat  one  barrel  of  your 
costly  fowling  piece  while  you  were  cleaning  and 
oiling  the  other.  The  few  implements  named  are 
keys  to  a  well-filled  larder  from  which  fish  of 
many  varieties  can  always  be  taken.     One  can 

^39 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

select  the  channel  bass  with  his  big  spots,  or  the 
sea  trout  with  his  little  ones,  or  may  choose  at 
will  the  white  flesh  of  Spanish  mackerel  or 
sheepshead,  or  the  rich,  red  meat  of  the  cavally. 
As  the  fisherman  becomes  skilled  with  the  grains 
he  will  eat  of  pompano,  placed  on  the  coals  be- 
fore it  has  ceased  to  flop,  and  will  realize  that  he 
has  reached  the  height  of  epicureanism.  Broiled 
duck,  Indian  hen,  and  other  birds  that  may  legiti- 
mately be  used  as  food  are  always  available. 

Reefs  of  oysters  abound  in  tarpon  waters  and 
the  very  trees  are  laden  with  the  bivalves,  small 
but  sweet,  while  a  bed  of  great  clams  stretches 
for  a  hundred  miles  before  the  mouths  of  the  tar- 
pon rivers.  Palmetto  cabbage,  bread  of  the 
Cracker,  grows  on  nearly  every  wooded  bank, 
while  fruits  and  vegetables  flourish,  from  avo- 
cado pears,  custard  apples,  and  bananas,  down  to 
tamarinds,  wild  oranges,  and  yams.  Many  of 
these  grow  wild  while  others  can  be  obtained 
cheaply  from  little  Cracker  farms. 

In  the  cruising  of  many  years  in  Florida,  I 
have  not  known  what  it  was  to  lack  food. 
Limeade  and  tea  from  the  leaves  of  the  sweet 
bay  have  often  taken  the  place  of  coffee  and  a 

mo 


SHAKING   HIS   GREAT   OPEN   MOUTH   SO   NEAR   MY 

PACE   THAT   I  PUT   UP  MY  HAND 

TO   BRUSH   HIM   AWAY. 


WHERE  AND  HOW 

few  joints  of  sugar  cane  made  an  acceptable 
dessert.  My  mouth  waters  to-day  at  thought  of 
the  hoe  cakes,  Rhode  Island  cakes,  and  mush  that 
I  have  prepared  and  eaten  with  Florida 
syrup  made  on  the  banks  of  the  tarpon  rivers 
from  the  sugar  cane  that  is  there  of  perennial 
growth.  This  syrup,  unknown  to  the  markets  of 
the  North,  possesses  a  flavor  of  its  own,  not  ex- 
ceeded, to  my  taste,  by  the  far-famed  product 
of  the  maple  tree. 

There  are  rivers  in  Florida  from  which  a  few 
tarpon  can  be  taken  in  winter,  but  the  game  isn't 
worth  the  candle.  The  would-be  tarpon  fisherman 
who  will  only  go  south  in  the  winter  should  drop 
Florida  from  his  itinerary  and  go  on  to  Aran- 
sas Pass,  Corpus  Christi,  or,  better  yet,  to  Tam- 
pico.  The  big  Panuco  River  at  the  latter  place 
abounds  in  tarpon  during  the  first  two  months  in 
the  year,  when  it  isn't  worth  while  to  fish  in 
Florida.  There  is  no  lack  of  opportunity  here 
to  make  as  good  a  record  as  a  fisherman  should 
wish,  and  it  is  to  the  credit  of  the  frequenters  of 
this  resort  that  the  custom  obtains  among  them  of 
turning  loose  the  uninjured  fish  after  their  cap- 
ture has  been  effected.    Yet,  although  the  abund- 

241 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

ance  of  tarpon  in  Tampico  is  all  that  could  be 
desired,  there  is  no  such  variety  in  the  sport  as  is 
offered  by  the  passes  and  Gulf,  creeks,  rivers, 
and  bays  of  the  Florida  Peninsula. 


U2 


THE  FINEST  SPORT  IN  THE  WORLD 


THE  CAPTAIN  LIFTED  HIM  CLEAR  OF  THE  WATER. 


ROUGH    WATER    AND    A    BUCKING    TARPON    MAKE 
HARD    RIDING. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  FINEST  SPORT  IN  THE  WORLD 

I  HAVE  saved  the  last  chapter  for  a  serious 
talk.  I  want  to  weigh  the  sport  of  tar- 
pon fishing  against  anything  else  of  its 
kind  and  to  hold  the  scales  as  evenly  as  could  the 
blind  goddess  herself.  I  have  studied  the  lives 
and  the  writings  of  worthy  fishermen  of  great  re- 
pute, from  Simon  Peter  to  Izaak  Walton  and 
from  Izaak  Walton  to  Charles  F.  Holder,  vain- 
ly seeking  for  a  type  in  the  fish  line  that  it 
wouldn't  be  cruelty  to  infants  to  compare  with 
the  Silver  King. 

My  mountain  home  is  on  a  trout  stream,  fa- 
mous among  artists  of  the  fly  for  three-score 
years.  Rod  in  hand,  with  perennial  joy,  I  have 
traced  its  course  for  a  generation.  But  it  is  the 
delight  in  Nature  unspoiled,  her  rocks  and 
ravines,  sparkling  waters  and  shaded  dells,  or  as 

246 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

Charles  Dudley  Warner  expressed  it  to  me,  the 
"lovely  trout  scenery."  I  remember  many  red 
letter  days,  but  I  forget  the  bags  that  I  made, 
and  when  I  try  to  recall  the  well-filled  creel,  or 
the  colors  of  the  twenty-inch  trout,  I  find  that 
they  made  no  furrows  in  my  brain. 

I  have  spent  happy  hours  and  days  on  famous 
salmon  streams,  but  the  chief  pleasure  has  come 
through  the  charming  scenery,  the  beautiful 
pools,  and  the  excitement  of  canoeing  through 
the  white  water  of  the  rapids.  My  cherished 
memory  of  the  Miramichi  is  of  the  fishermen  in- 
stead of  the  fish,  and  the  nightly  symposiums, 
filled  with  the  genial  humor  and  serious  thoughts 
of  Joe  Jefferson,  have  banished  my  recollection 
of  the  days  on  the  stream. 

To  one  who  has  known  the  tarpon,  the  feeble 
efforts  of  the  salmon  to  live  up  to  its  own  reputa- 
tion are  saddening.  The  smooth,  greasy  way  in 
which  it  usually  slips  out  of  the  water  and  slides 
back  into  it  reminds  me  of  the  action  of  the  tar- 
pon— it  is  so  different. 

Time  would  be  wasted  in  seeking  for  compari- 
sons among  lesser  fish  than  salmon,  and  a  fish 
that  doesn't  jump  when  played  is  quite  out  of 

M6 


THE  FINEST  SPORT  IN  THE  WORLD 

the  tarpon's  class.  Thus  the  horse  mackerel,  de- 
spite his  being  the  fad  of  the  California  coast, 
will  have  to  practice  aviation  before  his  picture 
can  be  placed  in  a  Piscatorial  Hall  of  Fame.  As 
for  that  other  favorite,  the  jewfish,  or  black 
sea  bass,  it  is  not  only  as  ugly  as  sin,  but 
would  be  distanced  in  a  race  with  a  loggerhead 
turtle. 

The  tarpon  meets  every  demand  the  sport  of 
fishing  can  make.  He  fits  the  light  fly-rod  as  no 
trout  ever  dreamed  of  doing  and  leaps  high  out 
of  the  water  a  hundred  times  for  every  once  that 
a  brook  trout  clears  the  surface.  When  grown 
to  the  size  of  the  average  man  he  is  no  less  ac- 
tive, although  he  will  snap  a  line  of  thirty  threads 
and  break  a  hickory  hoe  handle,  as  you  or  I 
would  break  a  reed. 

Played  gently  from  a  smooth-running  reel 
with  six  hundred  feet  of  line,  the  labor  of  his 
capture  is  not  beyond  the  strength  of  a  robust 
child.  Or  the  great  fish  can  be  fought  furiously 
until  he  leaps  wildly,  around,  over,  and  into  the 
fisherman's  boat.  I  have  never  been  harmed  by 
a  tarpon,  but  they  have  landed  on  my  head,  car- 
omed on  my  shoulders,  swamped  my  canoe,  and 

Ml 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

one  big  slippery  form  dropped  squarely  into  my 
arms. 

Funny  things  sometimes  happen,  as  when  a  big 
tarpon  which  I  was  playing  with  shortened  line 
rose  beside  and  against  the  canoe,  shaking  his 
great  open  mouth  so  near  my  face  that  I  put  up 
my  hand  to  push  him  away.  An  instant  later  I 
was  struck  in  the  back  by  the  hook  which  the 
tarpon  succeeded  in  ejecting  as  he  leaped  high 
on  the  other  side  of  the  canoe,  beneath  which  he 
had  dived.  My  boatman  was  taking  the  hook 
from  the  mouth  of  an  exhausted  tarpon  which  he 
was  holding  when  the  fish  broke  away,  dived  un- 
der the  canoe,  and  rising  on  the  other  side  threw 
body  and  tail  against  the  back  and  head  of  his 
antagonist  in  a  resounding  spank  that  nearly 
knocked  the  breath  out  of  his  tormentor's  body. 

The  first  leap  of  the  tarpon  after  he  feels  or 
suspects  a  hook  is  an  effort  to  get  rid  of  it  and 
he  often  succeeds  in  sending  it  with  the  bait 
hurtling  through  the  air.  Fishing  with  a  heavy 
sinker  on  my  line  in  the  swift  tide  at  Boca 
Grande,  a  tarpon  seized  the  bait  and  rising  in  the 
air,  fifty  yards  from  the  canoe,  sent  the  leaden 
weight  into  my  hand  as  truly  as  Mathewson  him- 

^48 


THE  FINEST  SPORT  IN  THE  WORLD 

self  could  have  done.  It  was  on  the  same  day 
that  my  needle  fish  bait,  thrown  high  by  a  tar- 
pon, was  caught  in  the  air  by  a  man-o'-war  hawk. 

Tarpon  fishing  "acquaints  a  man  with  strange 
bedfellows."  I  have  fished  with  a  Doctor  of 
Divinity  and  with  Matt.  Quay,  although  not  at 
the  same  time.  Near  the  same  place  I  sat  on  the 
deck  of  a  palatial  yacht,  its  dilettante  owner 
smoking  and  chatting,  while  his  boatman  fished 
for  tarpon  fifty  yards  away.  When  a  strike  was 
made  the  yachtsman  was  rowed  to  the  fishing 
skiff  and  completed  the  capture  of  the  tarpon. 
Beside  the  yacht  was  another  fisherman,  a  boy 
in  a  leaky  skiff  with  ventilated  garments,  whose 
entire  outfit  wouldn't  have  paid  the  yachtsman's 
expenses  for  fifteen  minutes,  yet  the  boy  caught 
more  fish  and  perhaps  had  more  fun. 

Tarpon  may  be  found,  not  only  in  the  places 
of  which  I  have  written,  but  throughout  the 
broad,  shallow  waters  and  deeper  channels  of  the 
whole  Ten  Thousand  Islands.  I  have  seen  them 
far  out  in  the  Everglades,  in  lagoons  in  the  Big 
Cypress  Swamp  and  even  in  a  deep  little  lake,  a 
hundred  yards  in  diameter  and  ten  miles  from 
any  other  body  of  water. 

249 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

In  fishing  for  tarpon  don't  try  to  capture 
the  biggest  fish  with  the  smallest  rod,  except- 
ing, perhaps  just  once  for  the  name  of  the 
thing.  Proportion  your  tackle  to  the  work  to 
be  done.  A  fly-rod  with  stiff  action  fits  a  baby 
tarpon  down  to  the  ground,  but  even  a  five- 
pounder  will  tow  you  for  a  mile  through  a  creek 
before  you  can  tire  him  with  the  spring  of  the 
rod. 

I  am  opposed  to  elaborate  equipments,  yet,  if 
you  fish  with  a  tarpon  rod,  you  have  got  to  pay 
three  or  four  dollars  for  a  line  that  you  would 
dare  show  a  sophisticated  tarpon.  I  hate  to  ad- 
vise it,  but  if  you  must  crowd  a  lot  of  vacation 
into  a  little  time  and  can  spare  the  twenty,  thirty, 
or  forty  dollar  tax  for  a  powerful  reel  of  fine 
workmanship,  containing  the  automatic  handle 
brake  with  stop,  you  will  find  it  for  your  soul's 
welfare.  Then,  unless  your  reel  seat  locks  be- 
yond peradventure,  lash  the  reel  to  the  rod  all 
you  know  how,  and  in  any  event  tie  the  rear 
pillar  of  your  reel  to  the  rod,  that  a  sixty-pound 
pull  on  the  line  may  not  fall  with  multiplied 
leverage  upon  the  weakest  part  of  the  reel. 
Most  fishermen  don't  do  this,  but  all  of  them  will 

250 


THE  FINEST  SPORT  IN  THE  WORLD 

wish  they  had— if  they  fish  for  tarpon  long 
enough. 

Don't  carry  a  gaff.  Don't  murder  your  game. 
To  object  to  taking  a  tarpon  for  mounting  or 
other  rational  purpose  would  be  fanatical,  but 
wantonly  to  slay  the  beautiful,  harmless  crea- 
tures that  have  so  contributed  to  your  pleasure 
is  not  only  cruel,  but  it  is  unfair  to  your  fellow 
sportsmen.  The  fish  can  be  measured  without 
harming  him  and  the  cube  of  his  length  in  feet 
divided  by  two  gives  his  weight  in  pounds  as 
nearly  as  is  worth  while.  You  can  even  take  the 
tarpon  in  skiff  or  canoe  as  proof  of  your  prowess 
and  thus  landing  a  tired  tarpon  by  hand  is  often 
as  exciting  as  playing  a  fresh  one. 

I  have  saved  the  best  advice  for  the  last  and 
am  really  sad  that  so  few  will  take  it.  If  you 
have  an  available  friend  in  the  world  don't  cum- 
ber yourself  with  a  guide.  Two  of  you  in  a 
canoe  make  an  ideal  outfit.  You  will  take  turns 
with  paddle  and  rod,  or  line,  when  fishing,  and 
with  two  paddles  in  commission  there  is  nowhere 
on  the  coast  you  need  hesitate  to  go. 

Outfit  at  Fort  Myers  with  about  the  supplies 
suggested  in  the  last  chapter,  adding  as  Uttle 

«61 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

thereto  as  your  personal  equation  will  permit. 
Start  down  the  river  early  in  the  morning,  hav- 
ing provided  a  couple  of  fresh  mullet  for  tarpon 
bait.  When  about  six  miles  down  the  stream, 
begin  trolling  with  a  hand  line.  Tarpon  should 
soon  make  it  interesting  for  you.  Watch  out  for 
a  favoring  tide  and  two  hours  of  paddling  will 
carry  you  to  Punta  Rassa.  If  you  strike  a  head 
tide,  six  hours  will  be  needed  instead  of  two. 
Camp  on  the  shore  at  Punta  Rassa  where  you 
will  find  plenty  of  fiddlers  for  bait  and  a  few 
minutes  fishing  near  any  old  snag  will  give  you 
more  sheepshead  than  you  can  eat.  If  a  fisher- 
man happens  to  see  you  he  will  hand  you  a  couple 
of  pompano.  Don't  hesitate  about  taking  them. 
It  is  the  custom  of  the  country. 

Rise  with  the  sun  and  paddle  up  Sanibel 
Island  for  fifteen  miles  to  Captiva  Pass.  Troll 
occasionally,  when  the  water  is  shallow  and 
grassy,  until  you  have  picked  up  a  dozen  sea 
trout.  You  won't  eat  more  than  two,  but  if  you 
came  from  New  England  the  "sounds"  of  the 
remaining  ten  will  make  you  think  of  the  cod's 
sounds  that  mother  used  to  cook. 

You  will  settle  down  to  regular  housekeeping 
252 


THE  FINEST  SPORT  IN  THE  WORLD 

on  the  outside  beach  at  Captiva  and  unless  your 
strength  of  mind  is  greater  than  mine  you  will 
not  be  able  to  leave  for  a  week.  Your  first  work 
in  the  morning  will  be  to  get  some  needle  fish  for 
bait.  They  swim  along  the  beach  and  you  will 
stun  them  with  shot  or  a  bullet  and  grab  them 
before  they  recover.  It  is  not  the  conventional 
bait,  but  a  tarpon  will  climb  a  tree  for  a  needle 
fish.  With  a  professional  guide  you  would  get 
more  fish  at  first,  but  you  wouldn't  have  a 
quarter  of  the  fun.  You  will  waste  some  time  at 
the  whirlpool  where  the  tarpon  are  always  rising 
but  where  they  never  bite.  You  will  lose  a  little 
time  in  learning  where  it  is  best  to  fish,  but  your 
muscles  will  be  sore  each  night  from  the  tarpon 
you  have  played  each  day. 

Sometimes  a  grouper  or  channel  bass  will  take 
your  tarpon  bait,  and  always  there  will  be  more 
than  enough  for  the  larder.  You  will  be  glad  of 
the  days  when  high  winds  make  the  pass  too 
rough  for  fishing,  for  an  occasional  rest  feels 
good  and  beach  combing  and  shell  gathering  is 
resting.  Then  you  will  paddle  up  Charlotte 
Harbor,  keeping  under  the  lee  of  Lacosta  Island, 
and  stop  at  Faulkner's  bee  farm  and  taste  his 

^53 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

metheglin  and  honeycomb.  You  will  call  at 
little  farms  where  you  will  gather  figs  and  limes 
without  charge  and  buy  mangoes,  bananas,  and 
tomatoes  for  little  more  than  a  song. 

From  Captiva  you  should  go  to  Boca  Grande 
where  a  few  days  with  its  swift  tide,  rough 
waters,  and  big  tarpon,  in  your  little  canoe  may 
satisfy  you.  Then  half  a  day's  paddling  will 
take  you  back  to  Punta  Rassa,  from  which  you 
will  watch  the  weather  before  starting  down  the 
coast  in  the  open  Gulf.  Yet  it  is  all  safe  and 
easy,  for  you  will  follow  the  shore,  always  keep- 
ing near  enough  to  run  through  the  light  breakers 
to  the  beach  whenever  a  serious  squall  threatens. 

In  the  inland  waters  of  Marco  you  will  have 
good  fishing  and  you  will  want  to  stop  a  few 
days  just  to  sample  the  fruits  of  the  island.  In 
taking  the  inside  route  to  Coon  Key  you  will 
doubtless  get  lost  a  few  times.  I  usually  do  and 
it  is  an  old  playground  of  mine.  If  you  do  get 
lost  it  will  teach  you  how  harmless  an  incident 
it  is  and  save  you  from  many  a  panic  in  the 
future.  It  may  trouble  you  a  little  to  find  Cho- 
koloskee  Bay,  but  the  smell  of  Pelican  Key  at 
Sandfly  Pass  should  prove  a  sure  guide.    None 

254 


THE  FINEST  SPORT  IN  THE  WORLD 

of  the  other  points  on  the  coast  mentioned  in 
these  chapters  are  difficult  to  find  excepting  the 
Everglades  through  Harney  River.  The  first 
six  miles,  up  Harney  River  to  Tussock  Bay,  is 
easy,  but  after  that  the  course  is  labyrinthic.  The 
best  advice  I  can  give  in  a  few  words  is  to  keep  as 
near  as  possible  to  an  east-north-east  course  from 
Tussock  Bay  for  about  seven  miles  when  you 
should  strike  the  Glades.  It  will  take  you  a  few 
days  to  exhaust  the  blind  leads,  but  you  will 
succeed  at  last  and  the  experience  will  richly  re- 
pay you. 

This  program,  which  I  propose  in  all  serious- 
ness, having  tried  it  in  every  essential  feature,  is 
far  less  strenuous  and  far  more  satisfying  than 
you  can  possibly  imagine.  You  can  modify  its 
features  as  regards  food  since  you  will  often  be 
within  reach  of  supplies  of  bread,  vegetables,  etc., 
from  farmers. 

To  the  fisherman  who  wants  to  catch  tarpon 
without  exerting  his  body  or  exercising  his  mind, 
I  suggest  that  he  go  to  Marco  in  June,  July,  or 
August,  taking  with  him  a  hundred  dollar  outfit, 
a  ten  dollar  outfit,  or  no  outfit  at  all.  He  can  sit 
on  the  piazza  and  watch  tarpon  jump  until  he  is 

^55 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TARPON 

braced  up  enough  to  sit  on  a  cushion  in  a  skiif 
and  hold  a  line.  After  that  the  tarpon  will  pro- 
vide stimulation. 

The  moral  of  it  all  is  that  the  time  to  catch 
tarpon  in  Florida  is  when  they  are  there  and  that 
is  in  the  summer.  This  is  really  more  important 
than  the  brand  of  your  rod  or  the  number  of 
threads  in  your  line.  Incidentally  this  is  the  time 
to  visit  the  West  Coast  where  the  tarpon  live. 
Nature  is  then  at  her  best.  The  flora  of  the 
country  is  then  more  flourishing,  the  fauna  more 
numerous  and  active,  the  sky  bluer,  and  the 
gorgeous  effects  of  clouds  and  color  are  beyond 
compare. 

No  other  sport  is  carried  on  amid  natural  sur- 
roundings more  healthful  and  beautiful.  No 
available  sport  offers  greater  legitimate  excite- 
ment than  tarpon  fishing  and  no  trust  can  con- 
trol it. 


THE  END. 


^56 


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